Method in Madness
by catharticone
Summary: The Doctor and Rose delve into unusual occurrences at a psychiatric hospital, facing dangers that neither could ever have anticipated...
1. Chapter 1

**_Disclaimer:_** _Doctor Who _is the property of the BBC, and no infringement is intended.

_Special thanks, as always, to the wonderful SonicJules for encouragement, beta assistance, and unflagging support!_

* * *

"Oh." The Doctor's face fell, disappointment darkening his features. "I was really in the mood for that duck a l'orange!"

"You sure this is the right place?" Rose asked, surveying the quiet street before returning her gaze to the tiny, boarded-up bungalow.

"Yep. Best duck a l'orange ever, even better than they do in France. 'Course her grandmother was born there, in Beaune, I think, and she passed down the recipe, but still, Madame Luranne perfected it. The tang of the citrus with just a hint of the zest, and the meat melting off the bones…" He closed his eyes in momentary ecstasy then sighed. "But none of that today."

"Let's just come back last year," she suggested. "Doesn't look like it's been closed all that long."

The Doctor was scratching the back of his head. "Maybe I got the year wrong."

Rose suppressed the urge to roll her eyes, choosing a more practical action instead. She hurried across the street to a small bookshop. Several newspapers lay upon a table just inside the door. She glanced at the nearest one, the _Montreal Gazette,_ to note the date: May 7, 1956. She held up the front page as the Time Lord stepped to her side.

"This what you wanted?" she asked.

He slipped on his glasses to peer at the date. "Ten years off," he replied.

"Too soon or too late?"

"Too late. But still, she'd only be in her early fifties, too young to retire, especially for someone who loved what she did."

A woman appeared from the back of the shop, looking up at the prospective clients expectantly. "Good afternoon. May I help you?"

"Do you know Madame Luranne?" the Doctor inquired in reply, gesturing to the diminutive restaurant across the street.

"Celine? Of course."

"Where's she gone?" he asked.

"Back to France, to stay with relatives there."

"When did she leave?" he continued.

"Three—or was it four—months ago. Yes, it was three. I remember because she lost Geraint just before New Year's, and she tried to go on, keep up the restaurant, for a couple of months, but there were just too many reminders."

"Geraint?" the Doctor queried. "That was her son, wasn't it?"

The woman nodded. "Yes."

"What happened to him?" Rose asked.

The woman frowned. "You haven't heard?"

"We're not from here," Rose replied. "Just visiting."

"But I try to pop in for her duck a l'orange every chance I get," the Doctor added.

"Ah, her special recipe," the woman agreed fondly. "It was Geraint's favourite, too. That was one of the things that told her something was wrong."

Curiosity clearly piqued, the Doctor prodded, "What do you mean?"

"He lost his appetite," she explained. "Just about stopped eating all together, and he was such a robust young man, always active and hungry, but he lost all interest in food, in everything, really, just like that." She snapped her fingers. "Celine felt fortunate at first that the new hospital is nearly in our backyard, which is really almost funny, since none of us wanted it built here at first. But it's brought business to Ste. Adele over the last year, so we can't complain, really. They keep the patients on the premises—there was just that once at the beginning when someone escaped, but they've got better security now. And it seemed a Godsend for Geraint, because obviously something had happened to his mind. They told Celine they could help him, that they specialized in just that sort of case, so she felt hopeful. But then, of course, there was the accident." The bookseller blinked back tears.

"What happened?" prompted Rose.

"It was a real tragedy, because she thought maybe he was getting a little better, and she was beginning to think that he would recover. They let her visit him every Sunday. But that last Sunday, just after she left, he fell and hit his head. They told her he slipped on a bit of melted snow in the hallway. There was sudden bleeding in his brain, they said, and he was gone before they could get him half-way to Montreal."

"That's terrible," Rose said sympathetically.

The woman nodded with a sniffle. "It was. Poor Celine; Geraint really was her world. Still, she was coping, keeping busy with the restaurant. But then Louisa died, and it was just too much for her. She left for France not long after that."

"Who's Louisa?" asked Rose.

"Celine had got friendly with another woman, Louisa, whose daughter was in the hospital, too. Louisa lived in St. Joseph, you know, just down the road, and she was like Celine, felt fortunate that the hospital was here when her girl got sick."

"What was the matter with her?" the Doctor interjected. "Was it the same as Geraint?"

"No, just the opposite, from what Celine told me. The girl seemed to have all this terrible anger, and she couldn't control it. She'd hurt her younger sister, and that's when her parents decided they needed to put her somewhere safe, somewhere that could help her. Anyway, she and Celine met there and I think they both understood each other's feelings, both could offer support. When Geraint died, Louisa was wonderful. She'd worked as a nurse in Quebec City before she married, and she said she'd try to find out a little more about what happened to him, just to put Celine's mind at ease and answer some of the questions any mother would still have. But she never got any answers or any more information, because Louisa's car skidded off the road and into the lake not two weeks after Geraint had been buried."

"Have there been any other accidents around here recently?" the Doctor asked.

"Aside from that skier who bashed in his head, no," she answered. "I heard he'd been careless and was out skiing alone."

"Nothing else at the hospital?" he persisted.

"No, I don't think so." She thought for a moment. "I did speak to an elderly couple about a week ago. Their son was at the hospital, and they'd come out from the Ile d'Orleans to visit him; they stopped here for directions and bought a book to give him—said he'd been a big reader before he got sick. Anyway, I saw their car pass by three or four hours later, and the woman was crying. Probably it was just from seeing her son that way…Oh, I also heard that someone from the government was going to come out and inspect the hospital, make sure everything was running properly out there. Apparently Louisa had made some inquiries with the medical board."

"Where's the hospital?" the Doctor asked.

The woman stepped outside to point toward the base of the nearest mountain. "Just there."

"Along this road?" he clarified.

She nodded. "Take it about a kilometer to the west, then it'll branch off. The hospital's to the left."

He was already striding away. Rose offered a few brief parting words then hurried after him.

"We're goin' to the hospital?" she asked, already knowing the answer.

"Yep. Can't hurt to see what's going on. I think it's the least I can do Madame Luranne."

She nudged his arm. "You're just hopin' to convince her to come back and make that duck for you."

He glanced down at her with a grin. "Well, I wouldn't say no to that." Then his expression grew serious. "But something about this feels wrong to me."

"You mean that girl's mother dyin' in an accident just after she started lookin' into Geraint's death? You think she found out something she shouldn't have?"

"I don't know. But it can't hurt to have a look. And since the government is sending out someone to investigate anyway, I should have the perfect opportunity to poke around."

Rose didn't like the singular pronoun he'd chosen. "So you get to be a government inspector. What about me?"

"You know who has all the good information and really has the inside scoop on what's going on," he began.

She shook her head. "Oh no, not a dinner lady again!"

"It's for Madame Luranne, Geraint, and Louisa," he reminded her.

"Fine," she huffed. "But when we're done, you're buyin' me a lot more than duck a l'orange!"

He looped his arm through hers and grinned down at her. "Deal."

They split up as soon as the hospital came into view. The large stone building lay in a dell, apparently accessible only via a single, narrow road. The setting was secluded and tranquil. A tall wrought iron fence surrounded the entire property, with a guard gate in front.

The Doctor headed straight for the gate, psychic paper already in hand, as Rose circled surreptitiously around the back, looking for a secondary entryway used by staff. She found a smaller gate and considered herself rather lucky when a she saw two slightly disheveled women walking along the path from the hospital.

Rose tried the gate but found it locked. She waved at the women as they approached. "You work here?" she asked.

The younger of the women nodded, eyeing her questioner with some apparent suspicion while her older companion produced a key to unlock the gate.

"You know if they're hirin'?" Rose continued. "I'm lookin' for work, an' I've got experience with food service."

"Food service?" the woman repeated.

Rose recalled the year and amended her terminology. "Helpin' prepare an' serve, dishwashin', that sort of thing. An' I really need a job."

The older woman shook her head. "Sorry, but I'm sure they aren't hiring. They just let two of the gals go a couple of weeks ago. Said they didn't need them anymore."

Rose tried to look disappointed, but in truth she was a bit relieved. She hadn't relished the thought of peeling potatoes and scrubbing pots even for a few hours. "Suppose I'll try back in town," she said. She and the Doctor had agreed that he'd find an excuse to inspect the kitchens and they'd meet up there. Now she would have to think of something else…

"Good idea. You shouldn't be around here by yourself, anyway," said the younger of the two. "I'm surprised the guard didn't stop you."

Rose glanced at the hospital significantly. "Lot of nutters runnin' around in there?" she asked.

The two women nodded. "And they get out occasionally, too," said the elder. Her eyes flicked over Rose.

Rose looked down at her zip-up hoodie, tee shirt, and jeans. The women wore grey dresses with white collars and had wool cardigans draped over their shoulders. On their feet she saw low-heeled pumps, and she remembered the relative formality of the era. Even working women did not wear trousers and trainers.

She grinned. "You thought I was one of them at first, didn't you?" she asked. "'Cause of my clothes, yeah?"

The women exchanged looks then smiled in relief. "We weren't sure," one began.

"I've been travellin'," Rose offered reasonably. "Had my bags stolen in Montreal, an' this was all I could find, odds an' ends."

They nodded sympatically. "We can drop you in Ste. Adele if you like. My car is just over there," said the older woman, sweeping her hand toward a small car park.

Rose didn't particularly fancy walking back to the hospital from town, but she wanted to obtain more information from her new acquaintances. She also needed to figure out another way to get inside the hospital. So she accepted the ride, glad at least that she wore trainers. They might not be fashionable for this period; they might even earn her a few wary glances…

An idea was percolating in her mind. Even as it came to her, she realized it might be among her worst. Then again, it might just prove among her best. Because who could observe the inner workings of a hospital better than a person completely ensconced within it?

* * *

_To be continued..._

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

The guard had taken one look at the Doctor's psychic paper, told him he'd been expected, and immediately ushered him inside. The Time Lord's encompassing gaze moved quickly over the surroundings. He noted the usual clean, white walls and wrinkled his nose at the vaguely antiseptic smell in the air. He saw a nurse's station with two women clad in white uniforms complete with those ridiculous little folded, starched hats. For a moment he wondered if they were a nod to the wimples some of the first, and ironically last, nurses in history had donned.

The patients' rooms, he surmised, were on the second floor. The first storey seemed devoted to reception, a visiting area, and offices. A burly orderly passed by with a nod to the security guard as they approached a finely carved oak door.

The guard knocked respectfully then stepped back slightly when the door opened.

"Sir," he said, "this is the doctor."

The Time Lord was slightly taken aback. Perhaps it was usual for the government to employ physicians to inspect hospitals; he supposed that made sense. Regardless, he extended his hand to the man before him.

"Dr. Leeds, so good to have you here. I'm Dr. Poile, chief of staff. I wasn't expecting you until early next week."

Dr. Poile grasped his hand warmly.

"Well, I thought I'd pop in a few days ahead just to get a feel for things," he replied rather vaguely.

"I'm glad you did, because we're in a bit of a jam. The Provincial Medical Board is insistent that we have a fully staffed infirmary since the unfortunate but unavoidable incidents I mentioned in our correspondence. Apparently they believe that a psychiatrist and a dozen qualified nurses aren't sufficient to oversee our patients' medical needs, aside from prescribing and dispensing their medications and performing their treatments. They're sending someone out to check our facilities Monday morning." His tone wavered on indignant, but he quickly shifted back to amiability. "Really," he said, "I think it's a good idea to have you here; please don't feel that you aren't welcome. It's a financial matter at heart, as these things typically are. Our funding is not unlimited, and it's been strained even further in recent months due to our efforts to assist those in need, even if they aren't able to pay for our services."

He motioned for the Doctor to follow him back out into the hall as he continued speaking.

"I imagine you noticed the reception desk as you entered. Nurse Brownlow, Nurse Lafitte, this is Doctor Leeds. He'll be heading up the infirmary."

Both women greeted the newcomer politely, then the tour continued, as did the discourse.

"So, we've shuffled our budget, reprioritized accounts and staffing, and managed to free up the funds for your salary. And, since you've arrived ahead of schedule, the Medical Board inspector will see that we've carried out their recommendation and permit us to continue with our work. So this is a happy coincidence indeed."

"Yes, it is," the Doctor agreed, although for entirely different reasons.

The psychiatrist gave his guest a pointed look. "You won't mind starting work immediately?"

"Not at all."

"Excellent. Ah, here we are." Dr. Poile pushed open a door at the end of the corridor. The Time Lord noticed an elevator shaft beside it. "You should find everything you need in here. It's not… Charing Cross, wasn't it? But I think you'll find it better equipped than that village clinic." He clapped the Doctor on the back. "Hell of a thing to go someplace like that. But you must be glad to be back in civilization… well, at least as civilized as we can get out here."

"It's a beautiful setting. I imagine the tranquility benefits the patients."

"Quite. And for these patients, serenity and relative isolation is critical."

"What are the primary diagnoses?"

Dr. Poile frowned. "I understood that you were aware of our specialty. In our correspondence—"

The Doctor waved a hand dismissively. "Of course. Emotional disorders. I meant what other issues do they have? What sort of illnesses and injuries will I be seeing?"

"Nothing as exotic as dengue fever, malaria, or viper bites, I'm afraid." Dr. Poile smiled conciliatorily. "With our catatonic patients, of course, malnutrition is the primary issue. You'll see the occasional injury—self-inflicted and otherwise—too. Suicide attempts and lashing out at others are not unheard of, despite our best efforts to avoid them."

"Anything more serious?"

Dr. Poile nodded gravely. "Recently a young man fell and struck his head, causing a massive haematoma. We tried to get him to Montreal, to the neurology ward, but the bleed was too severe. We lost him."

"I'm sorry." The Doctor's eyes roamed over the equipment and supplies in evidence in the small infirmary. Human medicine in the mid-twentieth century was woefully primitive. "You wouldn't have been able to save him here, even if you'd had a surgeon."

"Probably not. But the medical examiner found an underlying condition—hypoglycemia. He thought that could have caused dizziness, which may have led to the fall. I'm quite certain that the young man slipped on a bit of water in the hallway. But the Board is insistent that patients be screened for such things. I'm not at all opposed to the idea, but most come in after their own physicians have done what they could, and we try to be thorough in reviewing all available records. Still, when we get the indigent ones, we'll want to have a look at them, be certain that any pre-existing conditions are dealt with."

The Doctor nodded. "I'd like to see each of the patients in residence, at least briefly."

"Of course. I'll begin arranging that first thing in the morning for those who aren't in isolation."

"In isolation?"

"We have a few patients who present a significant danger to others. They're appropriately confined. But I would be loath to expose you to potential harm. We need you fit and available."

The Doctor arched an eyebrow. "Oh, I'm quite capable of taking care of myself. I'm sure I've faced worse."

"Ah, charging rhinos and snarling tigers—that sort of thing?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," the Time Lord replied rather inscrutably. His eyes swept the glass cabinets, noting various vials. "So, tell me about the treatments you use."

Poile nodded. "We find that a combination of psychotropic drugs and psychotherapy sessions is effective for most patients."

"And for the others?"

"ECT has proven useful for some of the more challenging cases."

"Shock therapy?" The Doctor's eyes widened. At times the barbarity of humans against their fellow men still astonished him. "Do you have any idea how painful that is, how dangerous it can be if it's not administered properly?"

Dr. Poile frowned. "Your job, Doctor, will be treating the patient's bodies; mine is dealing with their minds. And ECT has helped to control some of our most intractable patients, to keep them safe from themselves."

"But still, it's—"

"Doctor Leeds." The psychiatrist's tone had grown firm and somewhat impatient. "Let me be clear on this point: Treatment of the patients' psychological disorders is my responsibility and mine alone. If I should wish your input, I'll ask, but until I do I'll expect you to respect my profession and training, just as I do yours."

Arguing with the man would bring him no closer to finding out what had really happened to Geraint and Louisa; the Doctor accepted momentary defeat. He gave a brief nod of acquiescence then changed the subject.

"So, how about the rest of the tour?" he asked.

Poile ushered him out the door.

* * *

Her hair was matted and her clothes were soiled and ripped. The young woman trudged heavily along the road toward the hospital, muttering to herself in incomprehensible words. When the stone building came into sight, her pace increased incrementally. Finally her shuffling steps carried her near enough for the guard to notice her.

He left the small gatehouse and walked toward her, his expression somewhat wary. "Miss?" he questioned, "can I help you?"

She did not look up at him. Her hands clasped at her sides, and she uttered a string of strange sounds.

"Another drop-off," the guard murmured. One hand found his nightstick as the other reached out tentatively for the blonde's arm. "Come on then. Let's get you inside."

She did not resist; he wasn't certain that she was even aware of his hand upon her as he steered her toward the gates. She continued her odd prattle during the short walk into the building.

"Miss Lafitte," the guard said as her propelled the woman through the doors, "looks like we've got another one. Found her wandering around outside. Probably left nearby by her husband or boyfriend."

Nurse Lafitte left her station and hurried toward the new patient. "All right, dear, don't fret. We're going to help you."

She took the ill woman's other arm, and together she and the guard ushered Rose inside.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	3. Chapter 3

The Doctor had viewed about a dozen patients' rooms with Poile. They hadn't stepped inside any; most of the residents appeared sedated, lying lethargically upon their beds with half-open, unfocused eyes. The Doctor's fingers itched to remove his sonic screwdriver and scan them, but he resolved to wait. There would be time for that later.

They were at the end of the corridor when an orderly hastened toward them.

"Sir," he said to the psychiatrist, "there's a new patient downstairs—another drop-off."

"What's her condition?" asked Poile.

"Disheveled, disoriented, talking to herself."

"Violent?" the Chief of Staff inquired.

"No, she's fairly subdued."

"All right." Poile began walking toward the stairs.

The Doctor peered through one of the narrow, thick windows into the nearest room. A middle-aged man was curled on his side on the thin mattress. His features were slack, and his eyes dull. The Time Lord reached for the doorknob.

"Doctor Leeds," the psychiatrist said rather sharply, "I'll want you to have a look at her as soon as I've completed the intake."

The Doctor's hand dropped to his side. "Right, good idea. But in the meantime, I don't suppose I could get a cuppa?"

Poile shook his head. "Cuppa?"

"Tea," clarified the Doctor. "If you could just point me toward the kitchens…"

"You Brits and your tea," the psychiatrist said with mild amusement. "Rodney will show you to the staff lounge. I'm sure you'll find whatever you'd like there." He nodded toward the orderly.

"But there is a kitchen, isn't there?" he persisted. He was anxious to reunite with Rose and find out if she'd discovered any interesting insights from the support staff.

"Yes," replied Poile. "It's in the basement."

"Good, because I'm feeling a bit peckish. Anything I can get you while I'm there?"

"I'd prefer you remain in the infirmary. I don't know how long I'll be with the new patient, but I'd like to get her checked in and settled into a room as soon as possible."

"Afterwards, then," he relented.

That was probably preferable, anyway. It would give Rose more time to poke about. He grinned knowingly as they walked down the stairs. With her knack for amiably pointed queries, she'd have the entire story in less than an hour. Oh, she might not be able to piece it all together, but she'd have lots of juicy facts. He couldn't wait to see her.

* * *

He'd removed his jacket and pulled on the starched white coat that hung behind the infirmary door. He'd thought he looked the part rather well. After tucking a penlight into the one of the exterior pockets, he'd rummaged about through the cabinets. The Doctor was just completing a complicated feat of pure architectural genius involving tongue depressors and cotton swabs when Dr. Poile stepped into the room.

"Young woman, probably in her early twenties," the psychiatrist said summarily, glancing for a moment at the small tower beneath the Time Lord's hands. "No overt signs of physical trauma or illness. She's obviously had some sort of psychotic break. We'll get her stabilized then transfer her to Montreal."

"You won't keep her here?" the Doctor asked, reluctantly turning away from his marvelous project.

"We specialize in emotional disorders; they can help her better at St. Michael's." He beckoned the nurse, who stood just outside the doorway. "Bring her in, please."

Nurse Lafitte guided the patient into the room, saying, "Here we are, dear. Doctor Leeds is just going to have a look at you. Nothing to worry about."

The Doctor's eyes widened in surprise at the familiar blonde hair, red hoodie, jeans, and trainers. Rose's head drooped so he could not see her eyes. She leaned against the nurse, who kept an arm firmly about her waist.

Rose did not look up at him when she heard his voice. Indeed, she gave no indication that she recognized him. As he appraised her further, he noted that her hair was tangled, and her clothing was smudged with dirt. His hearts began to beat faster.

"Do—" he stammered momentarily, "do you know her name?"

"No, she hasn't responded to any of our questions," the nurse replied kindly. "But she should become more coherent once the medication begins to take effect."

"Medication?" the Time Lord repeated. "What have you given her?"

"Thorazine," Dr. Poile replied. "She wasn't happy about it, either, but then they rarely are, at least not at first."

The Doctor saw now that her sleeve had been pushed up over her elbow and a bit of cotton wool taped over the crook of her arm.

"Did you really think an aliphatic phenothiazine was warranted?" he asked, trying to keep his incipient anger at bay. Still, sharpness edged his tone.

"It's standard for these sorts of cases," Poile replied.

"But there could be contraindications," the Doctor protested. "You should've let me have a look at her first." His voice rose a little despite his efforts to maintain a calm exterior.

Rose lifted her head languidly and blinked at him. "Doctor?" she slurred.

"Yes, dear, this is Doctor Leeds," Nurse Lafitte said, urging her charge toward the examination couch.

Rose took two steps then faltered, sagging down in the nurse's grasp. The Doctor moved forward swiftly, nudging the woman out of the way so that he could slide his arms around Rose and lift her gently back to her feet.

"All right?" he asked her.

"Dizzy," she reported. "Gave me somethin'." Her hand motioned toward the nurse. "Didn't want it."

"They never do," the nurse said, but her tone was not unkind.

The Doctor moved Rose to the examination couch and helped her up. With clear dismissiveness, he waved a hand at Poile and said, "I'll report my findings when I'm finished."

The psychiatrist nodded. "I have other patients to see, but I'll meet you in the lounge when I'm done. You can have that tea while you wait."

The Time Lord didn't even bother to acknowledge the comment. His attention immediately returned to Rose, who was slumping forward. The nurse reached over to remove her hoodie.

As soon as she'd finished, the Doctor said, "No need to stay. I'm sure you have work to do."

The woman blinked at him with a scandalized expression. "Doctor," she replied rather tartly, "it would be inappropriate for you to examine her without a nurse present."

He wasn't sure how to respond to that. He couldn't very well elicit information from a sedated Rose with Nurse Nosy standing by, and he really needed to find out what had happened to his favorite human. Why had she been mistaken for a mental patient?

And now the nurse was eyeing him warily. The last thing he needed was for her to become suspicious. He suppressed the glower threatening to twist his expression and forced an apologetic smile instead.

"Sorry. Where I worked before it was often life or death, and we didn't have time to worry about propriety. Suppose I'll have to get used to being back in the civilized world again."

Nurse Lafitte's disapproving frown softened somewhat. "Yes, Doctor, I'm sure this is a very different setting."

"Yes." He lifted Rose's chin. "Check her blood pressure for me, will you?"

The nurse moved away for a few moments to gather the necessary equipment. He took the respite from her scrutiny to press his fingertips gently to Rose's temples and cheeks. Quickly he searched her mind for any recent memories of trauma, but he sensed nothing more upsetting than her indignation at being held down and injected with the psychotropic.

Nurse Lafitte turned back to them. Quickly he slid his hands up to feel about Rose's crown then down over the parietal and occipital regions.

"No signs of head injury," he reported. He kept her chin elevated as he reached for the penlight and shone it into each eye.

She squinted at the brightness, trying to squirm away. "What're you doin'?" she mumbled.

"Making sure you're all right," he replied honestly.

"Oh. Okay." She grinned goofily and sighed, "My Doctor." She lifted one hand languidly and rested it against his chest.

"Now dear," the nurse chided mildly, bringing Rose's arm back to her side and quickly securing a blood pressure cuff around it, "let the doctor do his job. You just sit quietly for a little bit and then we'll tuck you into bed. Won't that be nice?"

"'M sleepy," Rose agreed.

"What was the dosage?" he asked.

"30 mg," replied Nurse Lafitte.

"That's too much for her," the Doctor said to Nurse Lafitte, glancing at the sphygmometer. "Her blood pressure's low."

"Not dangerously so," the nurse responded.

"Low enough to cause syncope," he retorted.

"That's a common reaction the first few times a patient gets Thorazine."

"I'm aware of that. But I don't want her to have any more—not even a lower dose."

The nurse removed the cuff from Rose with rather stiff motions. "You'll have to discuss that with Dr. Poile."

"Make a note in her chart," he instructed.

"I will if Dr. Poile requests it."

He turned to face her. "I was under the impression that the patients' physical needs would be my responsibility, and I'm telling you that for this patient Thorazine is contraindicated."

"Fine. But I'll need to know why in case there are other drugs that we should avoid," the nurse relented.

The Time Lord thought quickly, trying to remember the chemical structure of the drug in question and how it interacted with human biochemistry.

After a few moments, he said rather triumphantly, "Asthma! She can't have it if she's got asthma."

Nurse Lafitte frowned. "I've not heard that before."

He waved a hand at her impatiently. "Have to keep up with the journals, Nurse. It's in the latest issue."

"Issue of what?"

"You know, the latest journal. _The Scalpel_, or was it_ The Forceps?_ I read it on the trip over—the trip from Africa," he added just for authenticity.

"There's no indication that she's asthmatic," the nurse protested mildly, clearly a staunch proponent of the drug.

He arched an eyebrow at her. "You can't hear that wheeze?"

The nurse leaned in. "Her breathing sounds fine to me."

"Not to me," he retorted. "Perhaps your hearing isn't as acute as mine. Maybe you should get it checked. Can't be too careful about these things." He lowered his voice just for effect, then added, "Make a note about the asthma on her chart."

The nurse frowned. "Hadn't you better listen to her lungs first?"

"I'm quite sure," he began, but her expression indicated distrust. He reached for the stethoscope and adjusted it in his ears under the nurse's watchful gaze.

The Doctor pressed the instrument against Rose's chest and tried to plaster a professional expression upon his face. The gentle, soft thrum of her single human heart echoed against the sound of her inhalations and exhalations. He moved the instrument about a bit just for good measure then rested it against her back. Rose's eyes were half closed; she was unaware of his actions.

"Yep, bit of a rhonchus going on in there," he said.

Nurse Lafitte was not impressed by his little pun. Still, she noted his findings on Rose's chart. "Is there anything else?" she asked crisply.

"Just be sure she's not given any other medications without my approval. Once she's slept this off, I'll look at her again." He'd figure out some way to see Rose alone…

"Aren't you going to examine her for other illnesses or injuries?" There was that slightly suspicious tone again.

"Her heart's fine, and there're no neurological findings," he began to reply, but the nurse clearly expected something else.

She had already taken Rose's shoulders and begun to ease her into a reclining position, lifting her legs onto the couch. Then she took a step back, took up the chart again, and waited.

The Doctor tried to recall what mid-twentieth century physicians were likely to check with their primitive equipment and techniques. They'd look for signs of infection or injury—enlarged lymph nodes, abdominal tenderness or rigidity…

He placed his fingertips just beneath Rose's ears and began to feel along her jaw line. She opened her eyes sleepily as his hands moved over her.

"Tickles," she said softly. "Why're you ticklin' me?"

"Just be quiet, dear, and let the doctor finish," the nurse said, placing her hand over Rose's brow to keep her from moving her head.

"She's fine," he said, bristling a bit at the hint of restraint. What was next—strapping her to the bed? He rested his hand against her cheek briefly. "Everything's going to be fine."

Rose's eyes moved sluggishly to meet his gaze, and he smiled down at her, offering her reassurance. "Yeah," she exhaled. "But no more ticklin'." Her eyelids lowered again.

"Just a bit more," he said, moving his hand down slip it under her tank top so that he could press lightly over her abdomen.

"Hey, what… you doin'?" she asked, surprised even in her hazy state that he was touching her bare belly.

"Doctor's just checking to be sure you aren't hurt," Nurse Lafitte replied.

"Gonna… get you back," she slurred. "Tickle… fight."

"Yep," he said, wondering if she'd remember any of this once the drug wore off. Her skin was warm beneath his hand; he could feel the blood pulsing through the arteries and sense the functioning of the delicate organs that filtered, purified, metabolized... For a moment he was mesmerized by the sheer humanness of Rose.

He didn't realize that his hand had stilled until the nurse asked if he'd found something abnormal.

"No." He blinked at her, amending, "Nope. Everything's where it should be and appears in good working order."

He helped Rose to sit up as Nurse Lafitte completed the notes on her chart. When she'd finished, he said, "She's still showing signs of syncope. Can you get a wheelchair?"

"I think she'll be all right to go upstairs. We'll take the elevator—"

"No, I'm not going to risk having her fall and sustain an injury. Given recent events, I'm sure you don't want that, either."

The nurse's lips compressed for an instant, then she said, "No, of course not. I'll be right back."

As soon as she'd left, the Doctor took Rose's chin in his hand and snapped his fingers before her face. "Rose. Come on, Rose, listen to me."

But she was already succumbing to the drug. Her head slumped forward as sleep overtook her. He'd have to wait until her body cleared itself of the sedating substance.

Nurse Lafitte returned with the wheelchair, and he eased Rose's limp body into the conveyance. He wanted to follow as she was taken upstairs, but the nurse assured him that she'd be settled comfortably and required no further assistance from him.

For just a moment he wished he'd invented some malady or injury for Rose. That would give him a plausible excuse to look in on her. Well, he'd think of something, find some way to keep a close eye on her. Because those blank-faced patients upstairs were suffering from more than psychosis or neurosis or even catatonia. Even from a distance he'd sensed something missing from their humanity. The thought left him cold and somber. Had they come to the hospital in this condition, or had something happened within these walls?

He had half a mind to gather up Rose and return her to the safety of the TARDIS. But she was now perfectly positioned to obtain an insider's eye view of the activities within the hospital. He'd have to ensure that she kept her wits about her, though. He didn't entirely trust Nurse Lafitte or Dr. Poile to respect his instructions about medicating her.

After a glance at the corridor, the Doctor's eyes scanned the cabinets, then he opened a door and reached inside.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	4. Chapter 4

Her head felt funny, rather heavy and slightly foggy, and nausea was coiling in her belly. Rose opened her eyes slowly to dim, grey light. She was lying on a thin, hard mattress covered by a stiff sheet and a scratchy blanket. She pushed the offending edge away from her chin then peered curiously beneath the coverings.

She was dressed in a plain, white cotton gown. She glanced around the small room; her clothes were nowhere in sight. All she saw were bare walls and a thick door with a narrow, rectangular window in it. The scant illumination came from without; in the room no lights were lit.

Rose's eyes moved to the ceiling, where she saw a single bulb housed in a heavy wire cage. Her gaze returned to the walls. The room had no windows, and she was fairly certain that if she tried the door she'd find it locked. Through a narrow, open doorway she glimpsed a tiny bathroom with a toilet and wash basin.

Her stomach lurched uncomfortably when she attempted to sit up. She amended her motion to sink back down. Her eyelids were heavy and sore, too. Perhaps she'd just close them for a minute or two, just to rest them until she felt a little better. Then she'd get up and… do what?

She rolled onto her side with a small sigh.

* * *

After calculating precisely how Rose's body would require to metabolize the Thorazine fully, the Doctor had kept careful track of the time. He'd met with Poile and given a firm warning about administering any additional medications to the new patient. The psychiatrist had seemed dubious, but the Time Lord's rapid-fire explanation of the precise biochemical reactions invoked by the asthmatic's body in response to an aliphatic phenothiazine had seemingly convinced the man that his newest staff member knew a thing or two about medicine.

Poile had thanked him, albeit it rather perfunctorily, then bid him good night. The Doctor had managed to remain in the hospital, telling the nurses and orderlies that he planned to take an inventory of supplies in the infirmary. As the day staff departed and the smaller night shift arrived, he made a point of securing introductions from Nurse Brownlow then disappearing into the infirmary again.

He'd built his fourth tongue-depressor tower when he realized it was time to check on Rose. She should be waking soon. He ascended the stairs and walked casually to the nurse's station, where a rather sallow and haggard-looking woman sat reading a dog-earred novel.

He glanced at the book. "Ooh, Fitzgerald. Brilliant fellow, great characterizations, pretty accurate portrayal of the Twenties, though if you ask me he's a bit heavy on the social strictures. Hello," he extended his hand, "I'm the Doctor—the new doctor. Did Dr. Poile mention me to you? Just started today. Wonderful place you've got here, tip-top it seems."

The nurse gaped at him for a few moments then smiled in response to his affable grin. "Doctor Leeds, of course. I'm Marguerite Broussard. I have the night shift Wednesdays through Mondays." She tucked the book beneath the counter quickly. "I was just about to do the 4:00 check."

He clasped her hand warmly. "Lovely to meet you, Nurse Broussard. Perfect timing, too. You've got a new patient up here, and I need to see her for a few minutes. She had a rather bad reaction to the Thorazine she was given, and I want to check she's all right."

The nurse nodded. "She's in room 7-A, just down here." She reached into a drawer for a key; he made a mental note of its precise location at her station.

"Have you looked in on her?" he asked.

"She's been sleeping—hasn't really moved since I came on shift. But of course I've glanced in on her every hour. Her chart says she's asthmatic, so I've made sure she was breathing properly."

"Thank you."

"Of course."

They walked down the hallway to Rose's room. The nurse unlocked the door, and he stepped inside.

"I'll just be a minute or two—need to check her vitals, be sure her asthma isn't acting up."

"I should probably stay," she began.

"Nonsense. I mean, you have things to do, other patients to check. Really, I won't be a minute. Leave the door open if you like."

"Oh, I can't do that. We keep the doors locked at all times for the patients' protection."

"Fine, lock 'er up then. I'll just give a tap when I've finished."

He maintained a pleasant exterior, but the thought of keeping all the patients secured within these tiny, dismal rooms made him bridle. He'd been shown a dayroom during his tour, so at least some patients were permitted to leave their cells periodically, but he felt certain it wasn't enough. The more pressing issue, however, was precisely what the patients required protection from.

He stepped inside the room and closed the door behind himself. Rose lay upon her side. He moved to the bed and placed his hand on her shoulder.

"Rose."

She gave a small jerk then rolled over. "Doctor!"

He grinned in relief. "You recognize me."

"'Course."

"Had my doubts last night. What the hell happened?" He glanced over his shoulder to see Nurse Broussard standing outside the door, clearly watching him. He shifted around a bit to block the woman's view of Rose's face, then he pulled a penlight from his pocket and shone it into each of her eyes. She blinked at him in surprise.

"What're you doin'? I'm all right," she protested mildly.

"Yep. But play along; they think I'm their new doctor."

"Really? How'd that happen?"

"Probably the same way you ended up in here being mistaken for a patient."

"Wasn't a mistake."

The nurse still hovered by the door, so he reached into his pocket for the stethoscope and adjusted the earpieces as he asked her, "What happened? I thought you were going to get a job in the kitchens." He kept his voice low, but his tone was quite serious.

"Yeah, but they weren't hirin'. I met these two women who work here, an' they gave me a ride back to town. But as we were talkin', I realized that there's definitely somethin' weird goin' on here."

Expression full of curiosity, he deferred his question for a moment to say, "Sit up" as he waggled the stethoscope at her.

With his hand at her elbow, Rose complied, eyeing the instrument a bit warily. "That necessary?"

"Have to make this look real. I told them you had asthma to keep them from giving you any more drugs."

"Oh," she said softly, running a hand over her face. "Suppose that explains why I feel so crappy."

"You don't remember?" he asked with mild concern.

"Not really."

He pressed the stethoscope over her chest, although his attention was clearly focused upon her words. "Side effect from the drug, I imagine. So what did you find out from the kitchen staff?"

"Nothin' specific, but they seemed really nervous bein' outside for very long an' insisted on givin' me a ride back to town. An' they wouldn't answer any questions about the hospital. Usually people in that sort of job are the first ones to tell you every detail about where they work, how awful their boss is—"

"So you decided to go undercover as a patient," he finished, sliding his hand down the back of her nightgown.

"Don't you think you're takin' this a bit far?" she asked with an arch of her eyebrow.

"Me? You're the one who pretended to be incoherent and possibly psychotic—convincingly enough to warrant an injection of Thorazine, I might add."

"Yeah, didn't expect that. Didn't expect to find you here pretendin' to be a doctor, either."

"Wasn't my fault. The guard automatically assumed it when I showed him the psychic paper. But really, it's better than being an inspector; this way I can see all the patients, try to figure out what's wrong with them."

"You don't think they're really mentally ill?"

"Some may be, but I can feel that something's wrong—really, seriously, skin-crawlingly wrong." He drew back a bit and tucked the instrument into his pocket. "So you have to be careful, Rose. I mean it."

"I will."

"They aren't going to keep you here for much longer. As soon as Poile—the psychiatrist—thinks you've stabilized, he's going to have you transferred to a hospital in Montreal. You won't have much time."

"Can we stall him?"

"I don't know. He says the hospital only treats patients with severe emotional disorders, and he thinks you're psychotic—different animal, psychologically speaking. Besides, I'm not sure I want you to stay. I don't like you being in here when I don't know what's going on."

"Only one way to find out," she grinned.

But he did not return the smile. "I'll try to get him to hold you here for the day and we'll see what we both can learn. But after that I want you out of here." His hand dipped into another pocket, and he withdrew a tongue depressor. "Open up," he instructed.

She complied, and he leaned in to peer down her throat. As he did, his finger darted quickly into her mouth, depositing a pill upon her tongue. She blinked in surprise.

"Swallow it," he said.

"You're druggin' me, too?"

"Nope, just the opposite. Did a bit of jiggery-pokery with a few of the pharmaceuticals in the infirmary and came up with something that should counteract the effects of any psychotropics they might still try to give you. That way you can keep your wits about you."

Rose swallowed the small tablet. "How long'll it last?"

"About twelve hours. By then you're going to be out of here." He stood up. "I'll check back with you after breakfast. With luck you'll have a chance to observe some of the other patients and staff by then."

"Okay."

"And remember, Rose, be careful. If you need me, just pretend you're sick. Can you fake an asthma attack?"

"Suppose so. That or appendicitis."

He glanced at the door again. Nurse Broussard was walking past. "Right. Back to work for both of us."

He stepped outside without another look at Rose.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	5. Chapter 5

It was shortly before 7:00 when the door to Rose's room opened again and a young, red haired nurse stepped inside. She introduced herself as Nurse Lebou.

"How are you feeling this morning?" she asked kindly, observing her patient for a few seconds then stepping toward the bed. She informed Rose that it was time for breakfast and helped her to sit and put on a robe.

Rose did not resist; she remained passive yet obedient. She allowed the nurse to lead her down the hallway and into the dayroom, where she sat at a round table with four other patients.

A tray was placed before her. She glanced down to see oatmeal, toast, and a small bowl of blackberries. Her stomach rumbled loudly; she realized she hadn't eaten in many hours. Her initial instinct was to tuck into the food hungrily, but she reminded herself that she was supposed to be confused and psychotic, whatever that meant. She wished she'd asked the Doctor how she should behave to play her part convincingly.

Yesterday she'd been successful by simply ignoring all questions put to her and muttering randomly. It helped that she had a large stock of bizarre-sounding planet and species names to ramble off; she was sure the words were perceived as utter jibberish. She wrung her hands slowly and murmured, "Raxi… Raxicoric…Raxicorico… plallipa…torius."

"Here, dear," said Nurse Lebou, taking one of Rose's hands and moving it to touch the spoon, "have some breakfast. I'm sure you're hungry."

Rose grasped the utensil very slowly, her eyes moving with measured languor from the bowl to the spoon.

"That's it, have a few bites," the nurse encouraged.

But Rose remained still. Surely digging into her food wouldn't look right. The nurse watched her for several moments then took the spoon in her own hand and dipped it into the bowl. She nudged Rose's lips until the spoon slipped inside her mouth. Rose swallowed obligingly.

She'd been fed about half of the oatmeal when an older, well-dressed man entered the room.

"How's she doing?" he asked the nurse.

"She's very cooperative, but she won't eat on her own," the young woman replied.

The man lifted Rose's chin to study her eyes for a few seconds. She wasn't sure what to do; she wanted to appear oblivious and withdrawn, so she tried to focus her own gaze upon nothing.

"She seems to have some awareness," he said.

"Her chart says she was given Thorazine last night but isn't to have any more. It seems to have helped her, though."

"Yes. But the new doctor's read research indicating that the drug is contraindicated for patients with asthma, so we'd best not risk it again. Still, I do think it helped. She didn't have any breathing difficulties during the night, did she?"

"Nurse Broussard told me she'd slept quietly, and she noted that the doctor saw her early and said she was fine."

"Well, she'll be transferred to Montreal this evening anyway. I suppose we'll just keep her comfortable until then. But let me know if there's any change."

"Yes, Doctor Poile."

Rose listened to the interchange with interest. Leave it to the Doctor to figure out a way to keep them from drugging her. She wondered if he'd made something up or convoluted the truth. Well, it didn't matter, really; she was just glad that she wouldn't receive another injection. Her arm still ached from the previous one.

Under Nurse Lebou's guidance, she ate the rest of the food then sat jibbering quietly to herself while the young woman moved away to assist another patient. This gave Rose a few minutes to observe her table mates covertly.

No one spoke; all four patients at her table were quiet. There were three men and one woman, ranging in age from early twenties to mid-fifties. All wore impassive expressions, and no one seemed very interested in the food. The woman picked at her toast, swallowing a few bites, and one of the men sipped orange juice through a straw languidly. The other two patients, the youngest of the men, sat without moving, their eyelids drooping and their facial features slack.

After a few minutes the nurse returned. She touched the younger man's shoulder and tutted gently. "Mister Drake, if you won't eat we're going to have to feed you intravenously, and I know you won't like that. Try to have a little something."

She broke off a small corner of toast and held it to his lips, but he made no attempt to eat it. She sighed then lifted the younger man's orange juice to his mouth and slid in the straw. Rose saw him sip lightly.

"Good," the nurse complimented. "Have a little more."

He complied, and she smiled. Rose looked down at her lap quickly and whispered, "Jagrafess an' Slytheen," when the nurse's glance moved back to her.

As an orderly cleared away the dishes, another opened the windows high up on the walls near the ceiling. Rose felt a soft swirl of fresh air and realized that the room had seemed stuffy previously. When the nurse had stepped out into the hall with a patient and the orderlies were occupied with the trays, she leaned toward the woman nearest her and said softly, "Can you understand me?"

The woman showed no response to the query, so Rose touched her arm lightly. "Hey, you all right?"

The other patient's eyes moved to the hand upon her arm then up to Rose's face. "Who… who are you?" she whispered huskily.

"I'm Rose."

The woman's fingers curled. "Did… it happen… to you… too?"

"What? Did what happen?"

"The…" She swallowed and drew a soft, shaky breath, closing her eyes in concentration then shook her head slowly. "I can't remember. It was so long… ago."

"Did someone hurt you?"

The woman blinked. "Some…one?"

"Yeah. Has someone in here hurt you?"

"In here?" She shut her eyes again. "No, not here. It's…safe in here."

"But something happened to you, someone did something to you."

The woman lifted her hand lethargically and brushed her fingers over the top of her head. "Here. It was here."

At first Rose assumed that the patient was referring to her obviously sluggish and jumbled thoughts, but then she saw the woman's fingers uncurl to scratch over her scalp. Her hair was slightly matted and could do with a good shampoo, but beneath the dark strands Rose glimpsed something—

Nurse Lebou was walking across the room with purposeful steps. "Clarice, stop that now. We've only just got it cleared up," she reproved kindly. As soon as she reached the table she took Clarice's hand and returned it to her lap.

Rose shifted her gaze to the floor and muttered, "End of the world. Platform one. Talkin' trees. Livin', breathin' trees." She found it rather ironic that all she had to do was repeat her experiences since traveling with the Doctor in order to sound like a raving lunatic.

The nurse glanced at her then took Clarice's elbow to pull her to her feet. "Come along, dear. If you're going to start fussing with that, I'll need to use the soft cuffs again, and you don't want that, do you?"

Clarice lifted one hand and gestured toward Rose. "No. I was just… showing her."

"Goodness, why would you want to do that?"

Clarice sighed tiredly. "She… asked."

Rose changed her murmur to nonsense words, mimicking some of the Time Lord's strangest expressions. "Mickity Mick Mick," she jabbered. "Wibbly wobbly."

She felt the nurse's eyes upon her but did not look up. She kept her posture loose. She saw the polished white shoes and tatty slippers as the other patient was led away.

After a minute or so, an orderly appeared at her side and took her arm. "Come on," he said.

She got to her feet, sparing a covert glance at the top of another table mate's head. The man's hair was unkempt, but beneath it she caught a peek at something darker than his scalp should be before the orderly propelled her away from the table.

She wanted to ask where she was going, but of course she couldn't. So she shuffled along beside him with dazed cooperation, surreptitiously glancing about to determine their destination. Perhaps she was going back to her room…

But they passed the small chamber to stop before a larger room. The neat sign on the door read "Treatment Room." Through the narrow window she glimpsed an examination couch with sturdy straps attached at both ends.

What the hell were they planning to do to her?

* * *

_To be continued…_


	6. Chapter 6

The Doctor waited until 8:00 to go upstairs and begin assessing the patients. He did not, however, wait for Dr. Poile's permission, and he chose not to remind the psychiatrist that he planned to see every patient in the hospital.

He climbed the stairs quickly then introduced himself to one of the nurses on duty, a pretty brunette named Suzanne Morton. The other nurse, a Miss Lebou, was apparently tending to a patient, but Nurse Morton assured the new doctor that she'd make the appropriate introductions shortly.

The Time Lord thanked her then informed her that, at Dr. Poile's insistence, he was to examine each patient on the floor. She did not question him; she took the key from its drawer and walked him to the end of the hall.

"This is Mister Drake," she said as she unlocked the door. "He's been with us for five weeks."

"What's his condition?" asked the Doctor.

"Catatonic, or nearly so, though he's tractable. We take him to the dayroom for his meals, but he won't eat. I'm afraid we're going to have to resort to an IV or an NG tube soon."

"He came in like this?" The Doctor moved to the bed, where the man lay upon his side facing the wall.

"Yes."

"Do you know who brought him?"

"His wife. She visits every Sunday. Poor dear—to have this happen just as a new baby is about to arrive."

"This came on suddenly?"

"Oh, no, not really. You know, most of them show signs for some time, but everyone around them chalks it up to eccentricity or a bit of depression or some such thing. I'm sure he must've had some symptoms before the condition manifested fully."

"Still, something must have precipitated it. Was there any overt stressor or trauma in his life?"

"Not that I'm aware of. Maybe it was the stress of becoming a father. You'd really need to ask Dr. Poile, though."

The Doctor pulled the single chair over to the bedside and sat down. "Mister Drake," he said gently, touching the man's shoulder, "I'm the Doctor. I'm going to have a look at you."

He rolled the patient onto his back; the man did not resist. A quick check of his eyes with the penlight showed reactive pupils, but the Doctor's senses tingled almost painfully at the blankness of the gaze. Something was missing; there was a gaping hole somewhere in this man's psyche.

"Could you bring me his chart?" the Doctor asked.

The nurse replied, "Of course," and hurried away.

He took the brief respite from her watchful gaze to focus the sonic screwdriver over the patient's forehead, his own brow furrowing at the results. He tucked the instrument into his pocket then rested the fingertips of both hands against Drake's temples and cheeks, closing his eyes for a moment.

"Oh," he breathed, jerking back as his eyes shot open. He removed his hands from the man's face but spared a moment to squeeze his shoulder lightly. "I'm so sorry. I'm going to fix this; I promise."

Nurse Morton returned with the chart, and the Doctor scribbled a few notes on one of the pages. Then he stood, plastering a jovial expression upon his face.

"Right. He'll definitely need fluids; I'd like to start him on a saline IV as soon as possible. Can you arrange that?"

"Of course. I didn't realize he was that bad—" She appeared very concerned.

"This'll keep it from coming to that." He snapped the chart closed. "Next patient, please."

* * *

The door to the treatment room opened and a pretty, brown-haired nurse stepped out into the hall.

"Oh," she said, nearly colliding with the orderly, "I'm sorry! Did you need something?" She held an IV bag in her hand.

"No. I just caught a glimpse of someone going in there and wanted to check who it was," he replied.

Rose kept her head down and appeared oblivious to the conversation.

"Just me," the nurse said. "The new doctor requested some medication for Mister Drake."

The orderly nodded. "Still, can't be too careful these days." He had not removed his hand from Rose's arm, and now his grip tightened slightly. "Come on, Miss. Nurse Lebou says you're to spend a little time in the solarium."

He ushered her down the hall to a double door at the end. Inside was a spacious, bright room with large windows lining the exterior wall. Several round tables were positioned in the center of the room, and along the interior walls were comfortable, padded chairs. A few patients sat at the tables ignoring the basic art supplies and simple puzzles set out for them.

The orderly led Rose to one of the chairs by the wall and urged her to sit. She complied, and he left her to circulate through the room, encouraging the patients to draw or work on the puzzles.

The two chairs nearest Rose were empty, so she sat muttering to herself, waiting for an opportunity to speak to the other patients.

* * *

The Doctor had seen most of the patients on the ward and found all in similar conditions. He'd waited to look in on Rose, hoping to give her time to observe and poke about a bit. When he finally passed her room and found it empty, an orderly told him that she was in the solarium and assured him that she was fine.

The Time Lord's head ached vaguely from his interactions with these wretched souls. To see human beings reduced to mere shells was indescribably sad, and his hearts were heavy in his chest. His mind, however, surged with ire; someone was responsible for these atrocious acts.

He returned to the nurses' station, where Nurse Morton was re-organizing the charts that he'd summarily requested. She looked up as he approached.

"Have you finished?" she asked pleasantly.

"I've seen all the patients currently in their rooms. I'll check on the others later. Right now I'd like you to show me the ones in isolation."

The nurse's amiability immediately faded to a frown. "That's not my station. You'd need to speak with Nurse Adams about that."

"And where would I find her?"

"The isolation ward is upstairs. But Doctor, those patients are there for a reason." Her concern for his well-being was evident. "They present a danger to themselves and to others."

"Then they probably need my help even more," he replied, already walking toward the stairwell.

* * *

Over the next fifteen minutes or so a dozen more patients were brought into the solarium. Rose heard the staff mention something about the Doctor seeing them, and she felt some small comfort knowing that he was nearby and was investigating in his own inimitable way. She was anxious, though, to speak with him, to find out what he'd discovered and share her meager information with him.

However, at the moment her priority was to confirm her initial suspicion about the marks on the patients' heads. When an orderly settled a stocky young man in the chair nearest her, she decided immediately that she'd get a look at his scalp one way or another.

She kept a covert watch on the two orderlies who moved about the room. When both were well out of earshot, she leaned over to the patient and spoke to him.

"I'm Rose," she said gently. "Can you understand me?"

He did not acknowledge her.

"Hey," she patted his arm softly. "C'mon, see if you can't look at me."

His eyes moved slowly to her face; she greeted him with a wide smile.

"Hello! You doin' all right?" she asked.

He blinked, and she thought she was getting through to him.

"Do you remember how you ended up here?" she inquired, waiting a moment until the orderly in closest proximity bent to help another patient with a puzzle piece.

"Remember?" he repeated.

"Yeah. Do you remember what happened to you, what brought you here?"

He closed his eyes, and at first she thought he'd fallen asleep, but after a few seconds he said, "It hurt."

"Someone hurt you," she confirmed.

"No—something…" He took a breath and lifted a hand toward his head. "Gone. I was gone."

His hand dropped back to the arm of his chair, and his head sank down onto his chest. With a quick glance at the orderlies, Rose reached out to run her fingers through his thick, wavy hair, parting it to peer at the skin beneath.

There it was: About two inches above his left ear she found a small, darkened area. It reminded her a bit of a burn, but that wasn't quite right, and it wasn't exactly a bruise, either…

She heard rapid steps and realized that an orderly was quickly walking toward her. She kept her hand on the man's head and lifted her other arm, waggling both sets of fingers and muttering, "Soft 'n' buttery, fluff 'n' nuttery, fly away, fly away."

The orderly removed her hand from the patient's head and set it in her lap. "No touching," he scolded mildly. "Keep your hands to yourself."

"Is there a problem, Rodney?" A female voice spoke from the doorway. Rose recognized it as the nurse who'd taken her to breakfast, Nurse Lebou. She watched as the white shoes approached.

"I don't think so," the orderly replied. "She had her hand on his head—I think she was imagining that she was flying or catching butterflies or something."

Rose felt the woman's questioning stare.

"Well, that won't do. I think she'll need to go back to her room. We can't have her bothering the other patients."

Rose was urged up from her chair and summarily escorted back to the dim little room. But she'd seen what she needed; she knew now that something had left distinct marks on at least three patients' heads. She felt certain that she'd find the same signs beneath the hair of almost every other resident here. However, she didn't understand precisely what it meant; obviously something had affected these poor souls, and she had every intention of finding out what it was.

Her door was closed and locked, and she risked a peek at the narrow window. The nurse's stern glare met her, and she quickly dropped her head again.

Nurse Lebou, however, did not miss Rose's glance.

* * *

_To be continued…_


	7. Chapter 7

The door to the secure ward was locked from the inside, but the Doctor made short work of the mechanism with his sonic screwdriver then stepped into the corridor. His first reaction was to recoil; waves of dark anger lapped at his psyche.

"Sir? Doctor?"

He didn't realize someone was speaking to him until the nurse stood directly before him. He blinked, forcefully pushing the torrent away from his mind.

"Are you all right?" the woman was asking, eyeing him with clear concern.

"Fine, right as rain," he lied, plastering a smile upon his face. "You're Nurse Adams?"

"Yes, and you must be Doctor Leeds. How did you get in? I was sure the door was locked."

"Must not've been," he responded.

She shook her head. "I'll have to speak with the orderlies. Anyway, I'd heard you'd arrived, but I didn't expect to see you up here."

"You've got patients, and I'm the Doctor," he replied, "so of course I'm here." He walked toward the nearest heavy, bolted door. There was no window, only a narrow slot toward the top of the portal. He peered inside.

The cell—because this could not be called a room—was padded and contained no furniture. In the corner a white-swathed figure crouched. It took the Time Lord's eyes a moment to adjust to the interior dimness, but when he did he realized the man wore a straitjacket.

"Is it really necessary that he be restrained like that?" he asked, unable to hide his disdain fully.

"Oh, yes, Doctor. He goes into fits of rage and slams his arms and legs against the walls. It's for his own good."

The Doctor looked down the hallway. "And the others?"

"Some are appropriately restricted in their movements; a few aren't, at least not yet."

"These patients up here, they all suffer from uncontrollable rage?"

"In one form or another, yes."

"Did they come into the hospital like this?"

"Yes."

He squinted through the slit again. "Open the door."

The nurse was clearly taken aback. "Oh, I can't do that! Even though he's in a straitjacket, he may still attack you. We need three orderlies just to feed him—"

"I'll be fine."

"I can't take that risk, not without Dr. Poile's permission."

"Then go and ask him."

She hesitated, glancing at the phone at the nurses' station then back at the secured door. "I can try calling him…" she began.

"You do that." He ambled along to the next door, finding a similar sight as he looked inside.

The moment the nurse had picked up the phone the Time Lord's expression shifted to one redolent of pain and deep concern. He pushed aside the sturdy bolts and opened the door.

The man within was wiry, with a frame similar to the Doctor's. He was less than thirty, but deep lines creased his brow as though he'd been scowling for years.

"I'm here to help," the Doctor said immediately, closing the door and moving toward the patient. "Someone's done this to you, and I'm sorry." He extended his hand in a placating gesture.

The man's eyes widened, and he drew a deep breath.

"It's all right," the Time Lord assuaged, "I won't hurt you—"

In an instant the patient had shot to his feet and lunged at his visitor. The Doctor was knocked back, hard, against the door. His elbow and temple collided with the thick metal; the force of it reverberated through him. For an instant he felt consciousness flickering away.

He blinked and shook himself bodily, trying to keep on his feet. The patient's leg shot out, and the Doctor narrowly avoided a solid kick to the shin.

"Please," he said, his thrusting out his arm to press his hand over the man's brow, "I only want to find out what happened to you. Don't fight it; just relax."

The man sank to his knees as the Time Lord's suggestion manifested. But the effect was brief, and the patient wrenched his body to the side with a grunt, severing the contact. He kicked viciously. The Doctor hopped back but lost his balance, falling against the door.

Raw rage twisted the man's face into a grotesque mask barely recognizable as human. He lunged again.

The Doctor fumbled inside his pocket for the sonic screwdriver. Setting 352 would create a blinding flash of light…

And then he fell back fully and felt himself tugged by the shoulders. The door was open now, and he was being dragged from the room. Thick legs stepped over him as two orderlies pushed inside.

"Don't hurt him!" the Doctor panted. "He can't help himself."

Then the door was shut firmly, and he was out in the corridor. Nurse Adams helped him to his feet, her eyes moving over him with concern.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

He raked a hand through his hair. His head, in fact, was close to throbbing, but it wasn't from his knock against the door. The surge of brutal emotion was painful, magnified by the intensity of a dozen minds similarly affected.

"I'm fine," he replied. He leaned over to peer through the slot again. The orderlies were hunched over the patient, who was back in the corner now.

He waited until they emerged from the cell then asked, "How is he?"

"He's all right," one orderly answered. "We've sedated him. He'll sleep for a few hours."

"Then let me see him," the Doctor said, reaching for the door.

"He could have killed you!" the nurse protested.

"He's in a lot more danger than I am," the Time Lord retorted, entering the cell once again. This time, however, the orderlies stepped inside, too, positioning themselves near the patient.

The Doctor crouched before him. The man's eyes were glazed. A drop of blood smeared over his neck where he'd been injected. His pulse had slowed, and his respiration was approaching normal as his adrenaline levels stabilized. He didn't appear to be in any immediate physical danger, but his mind was terribly damaged, perhaps irrevocably.

The Doctor rested his fingertips against the man's temple for a moment, but the sedative had effectively blocked whatever emotional turmoil roiled within this unfortunate creature's head. The Time Lord sensed little beyond a blank exhaustion. It was a shame, really, because if he'd been able to glimpse even a hint of memory he might be able to determine what had happened to the fellow.

The orderlies observed his examination with wary expressions, prompting him to cobble an explanation. "The pulse at the temple is more sensitive than the radial or carotid—lets me check his heart without a stethoscope." He pulled his hand away then stood. "He's fine for now."

They left the cell. Nurse Adams was waiting in the hallway.

"Is he all right?" she asked.

The Doctor shook his head. "Not even close."

Distress crossed her features. "Is he hurt?"

"Physically? No. But his mind is deeply damaged."

"That's why he's here," she said gently. "Dr. Poile believes he can help him."

"How?"

"He's found ECT to have some positive effects on these patients."

The Doctor considered this for a moment. The electrical stimulus would suppress neuronal function, reducing the nerve cells' conductivity, thus flattening the patient's affect. It was a temporary solution, at best. But this wasn't the time or place for a lecture on the pros and cons of this increasingly popular therapy, so he refrained from further comment. The real issue was the cause of the problem.

"…he'd like to see you as soon as possible," she was saying.

"Hmm?" He didn't realize his thoughts had drifted off. "Who would?"

"Dr. Poile. He's asked that you go to his office. He has some questions—"

"Good idea," he interjected, "because I have some for him, too." He stalked off toward the door.

* * *

Rose sat upon the narrow bed with her back against the wall. She'd been locked in the room for over an hour and judged that it was near noon now. The Doctor had not returned to speak with her again, and she was growing mildly worried. Mostly, though, she was anxious to tell him what she'd found and hear about his own observations and discoveries.

She'd gotten up more than once to try the door, but of course it was fully secured. She could probably call for help or feign illness, but she wanted to spend more time with the patients, and she was afraid those actions would result in her continued confinement.

Several times the redheaded nurse had peered through her window. Rose was fairly sure she'd managed to look away before the woman noticed her clear, cogent gaze. Still, arousing suspicion wouldn't do, so she sat and waited and hoped that she'd be let out soon.

* * *

The Doctor spent over an hour with Poile. To his surprise, he found the psychiatrist fairly forthcoming in sharing patient histories and discussing his course of treatment. While he showed little overt compassion, he appeared to care about his charges; at least he used the right words to convey such thoughts. However, the Doctor couldn't help but feel slightly suspicious of the man's motives.

"Isn't it unusual for so many people in one geographic area to be affected by severe emotional disorders?" he asked as they talked about the patients' backgrounds. Over half were from the Laurentides, and most of the others had lived near Quebec City.

"Frankly," replied Poile, "yes. At least statistically. But we've established a reputation, and I think it's likely that we're seeing patients who might otherwise be placed elsewhere or perhaps receive no treatment at all. So it's difficult to know, really, whether this is a statistical anomaly or merely the result of circumstance."

"Is there any correlation between the type of illness and the place of origin?" the Doctor inquired.

Poile considered the question. "I'm not sure. I'd need to review all of the charts."

"I can do that."

"I'm not sure it's necessary—"

The Doctor leaned forward, his gaze pointed. "Has it occurred to you that there could be an external cause for these patients' conditions? Something environmental perhaps." He knew perfectly well that a toxin was not the culprit; it would not explain the gaping chasm he'd sensed in the patients' psyches. Still, he was interested in the psychiatrist's response.

"No, I… I hadn't really considered that. I'm not aware of anything that could cause this sort of mental illness."

"Could be something not yet recognized—new chemicals are being invented all the time. Let me review that charts and I'll see if I can find any commonalities."

Poile nodded. "If you like, but I don't think you'll find anything."

"Oh, you'd be surprised what I can find," the Doctor replied rather obliquely. Then, to quash any misgivings on the psychiatrist's part, he added, "I can familiarize myself with the other patients' medical histories, too."

"I warned you that we kept them in isolation for protection," Poile reminded him. Of course they'd already discussed the matter when the Time Lord had first entered his office. With a scrutinizing look, he asked, "Are you sure you weren't hurt?"

"I'm fine," the Doctor said, rising from his chair. "Should I see Nurse Adams about the charts?"

"No. I'll call upstairs and have them brought down to you. It'll be a bit hectic up there for the next hour or so; it's lunch time."

Much as he loathed the thought of the orderlies pinning down the patients and forcing food into them, the Doctor compelled himself to focus upon the big picture. Perhaps the answer lay within the charts.

He realized he hadn't checked back with Rose, either. He decided, however, to wait until after lunch. That would give her further opportunity to interact with the other patients. After the meal he'd find her and see what information she'd gathered. He felt fairly confident that whatever had harmed the patients originated outside the hospital, so she should be safe within the building for at least a little while longer.

* * *

Rose was quite relieved when the door opened and an orderly took her back to the dayroom for lunch. Her little room felt too much like a jail cell, and it kept her from nosing about.

She sat placidly at the table and did not resist the nurse's efforts to feed her. She swallowed her tomato soup obediently and sipped a little apple juice through a straw.

"There's a good girl," the nurse complimented. "I think you're feeling better."

Rose muttered something about spirits in the gas pipes then permitted her head to sink down against her chest.

"Had enough? Well, I suppose that's all right. Maybe you'll have a little more later." The nurse patted her hand then walked to the next table.

Rose sat still for a few minutes then slumped over to the side, close to the woman next to her. She tapped her arm gently.

"Hello," she said softly.

The woman sighed in response.

"Hey, are you listenin'?" Rose asked.

"Yes," was the whispered reply.

"You can understand me." For a moment a smile crept across Rose's face. "I'm glad. Can you tell me how you ended up here?"

"The orderly brought me."

"Yeah, me too. I mean before that. How'd you end up in the hospital? Do you remember what happened?"

The woman swallowed, and her fingers curled into a loose fist. "It hurt."

"What did?"

"When it…" She closed her eyes.

"It's all right. You can tell me. I have this friend—he's called the Doctor—an' he can help."

"Doctor… no, the doctor can't help."

"That Poile bloke? No, probably not. But my Doctor can. You just have to tell me what happened to you."

"The woods…I was in the woods."

"Yeah. And then what?"

"I don't…" she shook her head sluggishly, squinting. "Something… it touched me, hurt me, and I can't remember…I lost something."

"What did you loose?"

"I… can't… it's gone, but I still feel it… I feel it here." Her fingers uncurled as her hands gestured stiffly toward the floor.

"Here? You mean there's somethin' in here? In this building?"

The woman exhaled slowly then nodded.

Rose took a quick glance around the room, and when the orderlies' and nurse's backs were turned she parted the woman's hair to find the marks upon her scalp.

"No," the patient moaned, "don't." She twisted away from Rose, her body sliding off the chair.

Rose's first instinct was to reach for the woman as she fell. She leaned forward to grasp the sleeve of her robe, preventing the patient from falling to the floor but succeeding in capturing the nurse's attention.

"Here now, what do you think you're doing?" she questioned, hurrying toward her two charges. However, her expression remained benign as she considered the situation.

The female patient had pressed her hands over her head, murmuring, "Don't touch, don't touch."

Now Nurse Lebou, the redhead who had fed Rose at breakfast, strode into the room. "What's going on?" she asked.

"I'm not sure. I think perhaps Beatriz started to fall and the girl tried to catch her."

Nurse Lebou bent down before Beatriz to listen to her stuttered mantra. Then she glared at Rose. "I think she pushed her."

"Really? She's been so cooperative—"

"Well, that must have been the remains of the Thorazine. It's worn off now. We can't have her going around bothering the other patients, and certainly not shoving them about."

The redhead took Rose's arm and pulled her up from her chair, saying briskly, "She's scheduled to be taken to Montreal at 4:00, but I think we'll need to be certain she doesn't try to hurt anyone before that."

Rose was bustled away, Nurse Lebou on one side and an orderly on the other. She anticipated being taken to her room, but instead she was ushered to the treatment room and taken inside. The orderly held her as the nurse prepared a syringe.

Rose was about to protest, but she remembered that the Doctor's pills would render whatever they gave her harmless. However, they wouldn't know that; they'd think her sedated, and that could provide her with the perfect opportunity to snoop about further. She just had to find a way to keep them from locking her in her room…

The nurse injected her with little heed to preventing discomfort; Rose flinched automatically at the sharp jab. The orderly kept her within his grasp until she made her legs wobbly and began to sink down.

"Get her back to her room," the nurse instructed. "And keep an eye on her. In her state we wouldn't want her _wandering_ away, getting near the _stairwell_…"

Rose's senses prickled with apprehension at the woman's tone of voice. She wanted to run, to get away as fast as she could, but the orderly was dragging her out of the room and down the hall. His hand clamped over her mouth, and his bulk was sufficient to prevent her from breaking away.

The nurse followed with rapid steps, scooting ahead as they reached the door to the stairwell. No one else was about; the other patients and staff were still in the day room dealing with lunch.

She was hauled bodily through the door, and then suddenly the orderly released her. She teetered for a moment on the top stair.

"You've been a very bad girl," Nurse Lebou rebuked, her eyes narrowing as her expression hardened. "You've put your pretty little nose where it doesn't belong. And now look where it's got you." She gave Rose a hard shove.

There was nothing to grab, nothing to reach for to prevent her fall. Rose tumbled down the stairs as the door slammed shut above her.

* * *

Nurse Lebou had just closed the door when Nurse Morton stepped out of a nearby room.

"Oh, Gayle," the redhead said, "I thought you were in the dayroom."

"Mrs. Warren needed her sweater…" Her eyes moved to the stairwell door then back to the orderly's face. "What's happened?"

"I'm not sure," replied Nurse Lebou. "I heard the door slam and was just coming to see what it was."

"Might've been a patient," the orderly said quickly. "My key's missing."

Nurse Morton reached for the knob and pulled open the door. "Oh my God!" she exclaimed, rushing down the stairs. "Get Doctor Leeds! She's hurt, and it looks serious!"

* * *

_To be continued..._


	8. Chapter 8

The Doctor had just settled down with a cup of tea and the stack of charts when the red haired nurse—Lebou was her name, he recalled—burst into the lounge.

"Doctor, come quickly! There's been an accident."

The woman's face was oddly stoic given the urgency of her tone, but he did not pause to question this. Instead he followed her down the hall and toward the stairwell. The door was open, and he could see another nurse crouched at the bottom of the stairs.

"What's happened?" he asked.

"She took the orderly's key and opened the door. She must have stumbled," Nurse Lebou tried to explain.

"Who is it?" He was nearly to the door now, and he could see small feet clad in white slippers.

"It's the new patient," Nurse Morton said, looking up with a devastated expression as he neared her.

"What?" The Doctor fell to his knees beside Rose and shoved the nurse aside. "Out of my way!"

Rose lay upon her side with her eyes closed. A cursory visual check showed no misalignment of her limbs. He pressed his fingers over the pulse point in her throat. Relief flooded him as he felt the steady, rapid beat. He examined a contusion upon her brow then slid his hand beneath her head, feeling for injury. Her skull was unharmed, and he found no signs of damage to the cervical vertebrae. His hands continued their gently probing journey downward, assessing the entire spinal column.

"Doctor? How bad is it?" Nurse Morton asked, her voice quavering slightly.

"There's no spinal injury. It should be safe to move her to the infirmary," he replied.

Without hesitation or preamble, he scooped Rose into his arms and lifted her carefully from the floor. He had anticipated dead weight, but as he carried her the short distance to their destination, he found her curling softly into his embrace, her head nestling against his chest.

He bent his head to whisper in her ear. "Rose? It's all right. I've got you."

To his considerable surprise, she opened her eyes and winked at him then allowed her head to drop back down.

With much lighter steps, he crossed the threshold of the infirmary and set her upon the examination couch. He permitted the nurses to hover while he shone the penlight into each of Rose's eyes then made a show of running his hands over her arms, hands, legs, feet, and ribcage and informing them that she'd been very lucky and hadn't broken any bones.

"But she's got a mild concussion," he finished. It wasn't true, of course, but a convincing lump was forming on her pretty brow. "She'll be unconscious for some time. I'm going to keep her here until she wakes." The tone of his voice made it clear that he would hear no arguments.

He lifted Rose's head and placed a pillow beneath it then reached for a blanket. "You should go and tell Dr. Poile what's happened; I'm sure he'll want to know."

The women left, Nurse Morton urging her co-worker with a hand at her elbow. The Doctor shut the door behind them then turned back to Rose.

"They're gone," he confirmed.

She opened her eyes, her gaze clear and bright. She began to push herself up onto her elbows, but he placed a hand upon her shoulder.

"No, Rose, stay as you are."

"I'm all right," she replied.

"You fell down a flight of stairs," he corrected, a touch of the fear he'd felt earlier hardening his tone. "You were lucky—and I mean really, truly lucky—not to break anything." He had pulled the sonic screwdriver from his pocket and now ran it over her torso.

"Really I'm fine," she said.

"You could have internal injuries—"

"No," she interjected, "I don't. I didn't really fall, at least not more than a few steps."

His hand stilled, then he tucked the instrument away. "Then what the hell happened?"

"I was pushed, by that red haired nurse an' the orderly," she said.

His eyes widened in surprise and ire. However, she continued before he could question her.

"She saw me talkin' to one of the patients, I think. She gave me some drug that she thought'd keep me quiet an' make me woozy." She touched the injection site on her arm. "'Course it didn't work, thanks to your special little pills. So when they pushed me an' I began to fall, I was able to do it without really gettin' hurt."

"How'd you manage that?"

She grinned. "Gymnast, remember? I know how to take a tumble."

"Ah." He exhaled slowly then rested his cool fingertips over the lump on her forehead. "But you still managed to knock your head rather spectacularly."

"Yeah, well it's not an exact science." She gave him an apologetic little smile.

He rubbed his thumb comfortingly against her temple. "So they tried to hurt you because they're suspicious; they think you've found out something."

"Something they're in on."

"What've you learned?"

She was about to reply when the door burst open and Poile rushed into the room. "Doctor! How is she?" he asked rather breathlessly.

Rose had shut her eyes and feigned unconsciousness immediately.

"I think she'll be all right," the Time Lord replied. "No broken bones or signs of internal injury, but she's concussed."

"She's supposed to leave for Montreal in three hours."

The Doctor's left hand lay beside Rose's. He felt a tap against his wrist then the word "no" traced almost imperceptibly against his skin. She wanted to stay. Even though there had been an attempt on her life, she was determined to remain.

Against his better judgment, he said, "I need to keep a close eye on her for the next twelve hours. You'll have to delay her transfer until tomorrow."

The psychiatrist nodded. "I'll take care of it." He stepped to the couch and looked down at Rose, resting his fingers against her wrist for a moment. "I don't know how this happened. These accidents—" He sighed and lifted his hand to rub at his neck.

"How long has Nurse Lebou worked here?" the Doctor asked.

"Elaine? Oh, since we opened our doors eighteen months ago."

"And before that?"

"She was at St. Catherine's for about two years; she had excellent references. Why do you ask?"

"She was on duty when Ro—this young woman had her 'accident.'"

"Yes. Elaine said the orderly's key was stolen. I don't know if she was trying to escape or was just confused."

"You trust the orderly and Nurse Lebou?"

"Of course. Absolutely." The man's tone was utterly sincere.

With a dubious arch of his eyebrow, the Doctor said, "Be that as it may, I'd still suggest that you have them keep a closer eye on their patients."

"I will. And you'll let me know when she regains consciousness?"

"Yes."

The psychiatrist left.

"He hasn't got a clue," Rose commented as soon as the door closed.

"Doesn't look like it. Question is, how are the nurse and the orderly connected to the patients' illnesses? Why would they care what you learned from speaking with the others?"

"Dunno yet. But we're gonna find out."

The Doctor shook his head. "I really don't like the idea of you staying here, particularly considering what's just happened. You're in danger, Rose."

"I don't think anything else'll happen to me. That nurse thinks I'm drugged, as well as concussed, so I won't be sayin' anything for a while."

"Do you know what she gave you?"

"No."

He lifted her arm and his tongue darted out to flick over the site of the injection. He smacked his lips and waggled his eyebrows as he analyzed the nearly imperceptible residue. "A heterocylic aromatic organic compound… probably methapyridine." With a deep frown, he added, "Nasty stuff. Causes liver damage."

"But your pill'll counteract it, yeah?"

"Should do, and a single dose shouldn't cause any real problems, but still, I don't like this, Rose."

"I'm not crazy about it either." She touched the lump on her head gingerly then grimaced a bit as she moved her other hand to cup her elbow. "But these people need our help. Somethin's happened to them, somethin' really bad, an' I think it's based right here."

He took her arm and gently felt about her elbow. "Hmm, a bit bruised," he commented off-handedly, then he rummaged in the small refrigerator for an ice pack. "Tell me exactly what you've found out." After donning his glasses, he pressed the cold bag over her brow.

"Ow!" she squeaked.

"Sorry." He eased back on the ice pack.

"Yeah. Anyway, most of the patients are pretty incoherent, but I did talk to a couple of 'em, an' they kept referrin' to somethin' that happened to them, somethin' painful."

"As if something had been taken from them," he summarized.

"Yeah."

"I felt that, too. I don't sense true mental illness; it's more like a loss of something essential, some part of the self that regulates emotion." He shook his head and lifted the ice pack to study the contusion again.

"D'you think it has to do with the marks on their scalps?"

He looked up. "Marks? What sort of marks?"

"I dunno. Kinda like a combination between a bruise an' a burn? 'S sorta hard to explain. But I saw 'em on three patients, underneath their hair, just here." She touched her scalp in the appropriate place.

"I'll take a look."

"That Nurse… Lebou, yeah? She's not gonna like it."

"She doesn't need to know." He set the ice pack aside. "Come on, you'll be more comfortable on the bed."

To Rose's considerable surprise, he scooped her up into his arms once again and carried her the short distance to one of the two beds beside the far wall. He set her down gently.

"What was that for?" she inquired with a small, amused grin.

"In case someone was watching. We can't very well have an unconscious patient walking across the room."

"Yeah. So, what now?" she asked.

"I want you to stay where I can keep an eye on you. I'm sure I can arrange for you to remain here in the infirmary through the night."

"An' once it's dark an' the staff's down to just a few, we can have a look around."

He nodded and reached back for the ice pack, holding it gently over her brow. "You know I have half a mind to send you back to the TARDIS."

With a wry grin, she said, "Oh c'mon, Doctor, you know you can't do that. You need me to poke about. Besides, it's always better with two."

He conceded her a small smile. "Yes, Rose, I suppose it is."

Rose had to pretend unconsciousness several times as the afternoon and early evening wore on. It was important for Nurse Lebou to believe that she remained unresponsive and unable to relate the details of her fall.

The nurse checked in twice before her shift ended, expressing concern about her patient's condition and offering to sit with her while the Doctor fetched tea. He declined, of course.

However, when Nurse Morton appeared at the door just after sunset, he had little choice but to leave Rose. Mister Drake, the patient who'd been given the saline IV earlier, was doing poorly, and the nurses wanted him to evaluate the man's condition.

"Bring him down here," he suggested.

"We will if necessary," she replied. "But he may just need another IV. He seems tachycardic to me, but you should be the judge of that."

"Did Nurse Lebou have a look at him?"

"No. She's gone home for the night."

Anxieties somewhat assuaged, he told the nurse he'd be up in a few minutes. She left, and he turned to Rose.

"I'll be all right," she said. "I don't think anyone else'll mess with me. An' I'll keep an eye out. I can fight back if I need to."

"I hope it won't come to that," he replied. "I'll be back as soon as I can. This shouldn't take long."

"Be sure an' have a look at his head while you're there," she reminded him.

"Yep, that's on the top of my list." He gave her hand a quick squeeze then left the infirmary.

* * *

Rose remained on the bed with her eyes open. She saw a shadow pass before the closed door several times, but no one entered the room. She was beginning to relax when the door opened. She tried to shut her eyes quickly, but it was too late. The visitor walked toward her and spoke.

"You're awake. That's good, because you and I need to have a serious chat."

* * *

_To be continued…_


	9. Chapter 9

Mister Drake's condition was not as grave as the Doctor had been led to believe. As the nurse had guessed, he needed continued hydration. He'd pulled out the first IV before it was finished.

Nurse Morton inserted the new line and taped it securely in place. "There we are. Now don't fuss with this," she remonstrated mildly.

The patient shook his head weakly and croaked, "Didn't."

"Now, now," she tutted, "it didn't pull itself out. I know it's a little uncomfortable, but it won't bother you if you leave it alone and try not to think about it."

He swallowed, his eyes moving slowly to the Doctor's watchful gaze. There was a question, a request, in those empty, enervated eyes.

"I think he could use a sip of juice," the Doctor said.

"Oh, I'm not sure he's able to drink. He hasn't taken anything by mouth in days," Nurse Morton replied.

"Well, he seems a little better now. Let's give it a try, all right Mister Drake?"

The patient compressed his lips as his eyelids fluttered closed then opened again.

"You see," the Time Lord said, looking directly at the nurse, "he wants to have a go. Run and fetch the juice, please."

He thought she seemed reticent to leave, but she complied. He noticed that she did not shut the door. He leaned forward, his hand moving into the man's hair. He found the marks quickly and took a moment to examine them.

"Where did you get these?" he asked.

"Please… no."

"I won't hurt you," the Doctor gently reassured the fellow. "I'm here to help." He removed his hand from Mister Drake's head. "Please tell me who did this to you."

"Can't… remember."

He searched the man's eyes; the statement was true. "Did you remove the IV?" he asked.

"No," rasped the patient.

"I didn't think so. Who did?"

"She…" His eyes were closing again.

"The nurse. Which one?"

He exhaled. "She… did… it." He slipped into slumber.

The Doctor shook his shoulder in an attempt to rouse him, but he was unresponsive. Quickly he ran a scan with the sonic screwdriver. The man had been drugged. His niggling suspicions were correct; he'd been lured up here so that Rose would be left alone.

He shot to his feet and pushed past Nurse Morton as she approached the door.

* * *

Rose was sitting on the edge of the bed. Dr. Poile had made it very clear that he knew she was conscious and knew she was aware of her surroundings.

"It's no good pretending," he'd said sternly. "I'll remind you that I'm a doctor, too. And I have thirty years of experience with psychotic patients. Despite what Doctor Leeds said, I could tell from your pulse and respiration that you weren't unconscious, and your responses in the dayroom told me that you weren't psychotic, either. So either the good doctor is a quack, which I doubt considering the knowledge he's demonstrated, or he's in on whatever it is that you're trying to do."

Rose shrugged. "All right, you got me."

"You're with the Provincial Medical Board, aren't you?"

She immediately realized the benefits of the doctor's misperception. So she replied simply, "Yeah."

"Is Leeds, too?"

"No," she answered honestly, waiting to judge the psychiatrist's intent.

"So you were sent here to pretend to be a patient, to observe us. You must really be a nurse, yes?"

"Yeah," she agreed. "I was just tryin' to see what's goin' on here."

He sank down on the opposite bed. "Were you? Well, quite frankly I'm glad to hear it, because I'd like to know the answer to that, too."

"What d'you mean?"

"Something's wrong. The accidents, the significant increase in patients with severe emotional illness… At first I felt grateful for the opportunity to study them, to try new and promising treatments. And perhaps," he admitted, "I was a bit too eager, too excited by the prospect of professional exploration and eventual accolades… I didn't really consider the facts until Doctor Leeds pointed them out to me."

"What facts are those?"

"That nearly all of these patients have come from only two areas, that such a fact is statistically unlikely…"

"Yeah, it is," she agreed.

"So do you have any ideas? Have you figured out what's going on?"

"Nurse Lebou's in on it, whatever it is. She had the orderly hold me, an' she tried to drug me, an' then she pushed me down the stairs."

His eyes widened in shock. "Oh! I'm so sorry. I really believed I could trust her. She was highly recommended."

"By whom?"

"By her former employer. She had several glowing letters of reference."

"Did you call to check they were real?"

He appeared bemused. "No."

"Well, next time you might wanna do that."

"Yes… I suppose I should."

"So are there any other facts that are botherin' you?" she asked.

He hesitated, clearly reticent to share something yet demonstrating a significant desire to do so. He lowered his head to his hands and exhaled a deep sigh. Finally he looked up, his expression one of deep remorse and compunction.

"I've done a terrible thing." Tears shone in his eyes.

"Yeah? An' what's that?"

Poile closed his eyes; he could not look at her. "Something happened, something that I should have reported, should have investigated. But we'd just lost another patient due to an accident, and I was afraid that we'd be shut down if anything else happened. I felt I was close to a break-through with some of the more violent patients; I was on the precipice of professional prominence." His fisted hands pressed over his forehead. "It was wrong; I know that now and probably knew it then, too... But I want to try to make it right if that's at all possible."

"What happened?" Rose asked, her tone gentler in the face of the man's repentance.

"It was one of the kitchen staff—a young woman no older than you. About a week ago another worker found her in the basement, dead. It was early, not yet dawn, but I'd been here all night dealing with a critical patient. The rest of the kitchen staff hadn't arrived yet; it was just the two women. I went down, of course, and looked at the body. She'd died of a massive head wound. At first I thought she'd fallen, that there'd been an accident when she went down to one of the storage areas. I told the other worker that's what had happened, and I let myself believe it because considering anything else would've opened up too many questions, too many possibilities that I wasn't willing to face."

"Like what?"

He looked up at her. "She hadn't fallen or had an accident. She was killed by someone…or something. The wound was like nothing I'd seen before. It originated within the skull, as though something had been forcefully pulled out." His face contorted with revulsion.

"So what'd you do?" Rose prompted.

He took a breath. "The dead woman had no family, and she lived alone. There was no one to question her sudden departure… So I told the kitchen supervisor that I'd let her go due to budget constraints. And I gave the other woman, the one who'd found her, a generous check and sent her away. She agreed to keep silent. I warned all the workers that they needed to be careful, that we'd had a couple of patient try to escape, so they should all keep together, keep a watchful eye."

"What'd you do about the body?" This was an important question; the Doctor would likely want to see the strange wound.

"I buried her in the woods." He swallowed back a sob. "How can I make this right?"

"You can help me figure out what killed her. You said if you'd questioned it, it would've opened up too many possibilities. What're you talkin' about?"

"After I saw the body, I took a look around, thinking that possibly one of the violent patients had escaped and been responsible for the atrocity. There was a door—a solid metal door at the end of a long, unused corridor beneath the kitchens—and it was locked. My keys wouldn't work. I thought it must have been part of the original building; the hospital was constructed atop the ruins of an 18th Century farmhouse. Anyway, I was about to turn away when I heard something behind the door."

"Any idea what it was?"

He shook his head. "No. But it was alive, and it sounded at least as large as a man. And I thought, 'That's what killed her.' But there was too much at stake, too much to lose, and so I just walked away."

"You haven't gone back or tried to get the door open?"

"No. I know I should have, I know it was wrong—everything I did was wrong."

"We need to find out what's behind that door."

"Yes. But we'll need to find a way to unlock it."

The Doctor had the sonic screwdriver with him, of course. Rose stood and scrawled a quick note for the Time Lord. "C'mon, let's have a look. When the Doctor gets back he'll join us, an' he'll be able to get the door open."

She and the pale psychiatrist left the infirmary and headed for the stairwell. They did not see the white-clad figure that watched them from a slightly ajar door across the hall. Quiet yet quick footsteps crossed the hall and entered the infirmary then hurried toward the stairwell to follow the psychiatrist and Rose into the basement.

* * *

The Doctor rushed down to the infirmary to find the door ajar and the room empty. He looked about, but there was no sign of Rose. Perhaps she'd left a note… He saw a pen and pad on the small desk. However, there was no message from her.

He walked back out into the hallway. Nurse Lafitte was on duty at the downstairs station. She hadn't seen the "new patient." The only person she'd noticed was Dr. Poile, who'd passed her several minutes ago; she thought he'd been headed toward the infirmary.

The Doctor checked Poile's suite then stalked back to his own ersatz office. "Where the hell have you gone?" he muttered. Despite his unquestionable brilliance and tremendous powers of deduction, he had no idea where to begin.

A systematic search was the only option. He'd start with the upper floors then work his way down. Anxiety quickening his heart beats, he hurried to the stairwell and headed upstairs.

* * *

Rose and Dr. Poile passed the kitchens; no one was about due to the hour. He led her to the narrow corridor in which he'd found the body. He'd cleaned up, of course, but she could still see a faint sienna smear of across the stone floor.

"So where's this locked door?" she asked.

"It's down this way, off the secondary storage area. I doubt anyone's been along that hallway in ages."

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "You mean anyone except whoever—or whatever—killed that poor woman."

"Yes," he conceded regretfully.

They followed a dim, narrow offshoot of the hallway for about twenty meters. Poile's penlight provided minimal illumination, as there were no lights in the area. Rose's nose prickled at the damp, musky, faintly acrid smell that grew stronger as they walked along.

The psychiatrist's steps slowed, and she detected a quaver in his voice as he informed her, "It's just down there."

Rose slackened her pace too, moving cautiously and quietly. Poile aimed the light ahead; behind him was only heavy gloom. She saw the thick door and approached it warily, listening for any noises from inside.

She heard a shuffling, but it seemed to come from the passageway. She looked back to see Poile standing very still, his complexion ashen beneath his anxious, fearful features.

She placed her hand against the cool metal of the door. She felt a tiny vibration…

A sudden groan from within made her jump back. The noise was eerie and heartrending in one. Rose stared at the door as if she could determine what lay beyond it by sheer force of will.

"What is it?" she asked.

When Poile did not reply, she twisted her head back to look at him. Abruptly the wan illumination ceased, shrouding the chamber in darkness. But Rose caught a glimpse of head-to-toe white and a pale hand that moved swiftly toward the psychiatrist's temple. She heard a dull thud, then a heavier sound as something fell to the floor.

She tried to step to the side, to push past the figure she knew stood beside Poile, but something caught her arm and held it fast.

"Let me go!" she cried, twisting mightily and trying to stomp and kick at her captor.

Her hair was grasped hard, forcing her head back. The acrid smell shifted, suddenly cloying and heavy, and there was firm pressure over her nose and mouth. Rose tried to resist, tried not to inhale, but her efforts were futile. Her mind was rapidly growing foggy, and her eyelids lowered of their own accord.

"A nosy girl like you," she heard Nurse Lebou say through the thickening haze, "needs to be stopped once and for all before you ruin everything."

Consciousness left her, and Rose slumped down to the floor.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	10. Chapter 10

The Doctor had inquired at the nurse's station in the isolation ward, but the night nurse had not seen Rose. Still, he made a point of peering into each cell to be certain that the real patients were the only inhabitants.

He hurried down to the next floor. Nurse Brownlow was on duty again. She'd heard about Rose's accident and immediately inquired about her well-being.

"She's left the infirmary, and I don't know where she's gone," he replied curtly. "She's not upstairs. You haven't seen her here?"

"No, Doctor, I haven't. But let's check all the room and the dayroom, just in case."

Together they made a rapid search of the floor, but to no avail. The Time Lord descended the stairs two at a time, a distinct sense of foreboding gnawing at his gut. Something was wrong; he could feel it, but it was too vague to identify.

Back on the first floor he asked Nurse Lafitte again if she'd seen Rose.

"No. And Dr. Poile's not in his office or the lounge, either. He didn't check out, so I'm sure he's somewhere in the building."

"Where else is there?"

"If you've been upstairs, there're just the kitchens in the basement."

"I'm going to check the lounge and Poile's office again," he said, dashing down the hall. He didn't like the fact that the psychiatrist had disappeared along with Rose. He'd had a feeling he couldn't trust the man. He should have followed up on it better…

Well, there was nothing for it now. All he could do was continue searching and hope he found Rose before his sense of foreboding could manifest into a real incident.

* * *

She felt herself dragged across the stone floor for some distance. Consciousness flickered, winking in and out, permitting Rose to apprehend what was happening but not to fight against it. Her limbs were limp and uncooperative, refusing to obey the commands her fuzzy brain attempted to send.

Finally she stopped moving. Her shoulders were released, and she slumped down once again.

"No, no, that won't do," Nurse Lebou scolded. "Up you come. No one will believe it if you're lying down like that. I don't know why," and now her tone was almost conversational, "they always do it sitting up. Hmm. That's an interesting question I'd never really considered before. Well, no matter. The important thing is that you're in the proper position, so here we go."

She shoved Rose up so that she sat with her back against the wall. The nurse crouched before her.

"Hold out her arm," she instructed.

Rose realized dully that another figure, a larger one, stood slightly off to the side. She recognized the orderly as soon as he bent down. He took her right arm and extended it. She tried to pull it away, but she was too weak, and his grip was too strong.

Nurse Lebou reached into a pocket and pulled out something small and shiny. It dawned on Rose that they were well out of the dark corridor and back near a dimly lit area. She didn't think she'd gone up the stairs, so they must be somewhere in the basement, perhaps near the kitchens.

Those semi-lucid thoughts fled as soon as she realized what the nurse held in her hand. It was a scalpel, and it was moving toward her wrist.

"You stole this from the infirmary," the woman informed Rose in a facetious tone. "Doctor Leeds really should have been more careful. Poor man. I wonder if he'll feel guilty." She chuckled lowly. "Men are so vulnerable when they feel guilty. You know, Rodney, I think I could provide him with some _comfort_. He's a nice looking fellow, isn't he? Those eyes are rather gorgeous…"

Rose felt only the coldness of the blade as the nurse sliced into her wrist. Blood began to well immediately. Tears prickled at her eyes as she understood fully what the nurse had planned for her. She tried to speak, to form the single word "no," but no sound escaped her.

Rodney took her left arm and held it while Nurse Lebou cut deeply through skin and into the vein. Then she dropped the scalpel near Rose's right hand and stood.

"There. That's done. She won't be found until the morning shift arrives, and it'll be much too late by then. Come along, Rodney. Do you have your key to the back door?"

"Yes," the orderly replied, the only word Rose heard him speak.

"Good. So long, dear." She reached down to ruffle Rose's hair then strode away with Rodney following at her heels like an overgrown dog.

Consciousness was slipping away again. Rose could do nothing more than watch in abject horror as the blood flowed, bright and red and quick, from her open veins.

* * *

"She's not here," the Doctor reported to Nurse Lafitte, his frustration and fear growing by leaps and bounds as he finished searching the ground floor. "She must be in the basement."

"Do you want me to go down with you?" the nurse offered.

"No. Stay up here. If you see her, have her wait right here until I come back up."

"Yes, Doctor." Her eyes flicked from his face to the exterior door. "That's odd," she said.

He followed her gaze to see a car driving away from the hospital.

"The day shift all left over an hour ago," she commented. "I can't imagine who that would be. Maybe someone stayed late in the kitchen."

"Someone could have taken her," the Doctor said. "Are you sure Poile cancelled the transport to Montreal?"

"Oh yes, I made the call myself."

Still, the departing car could account for Rose's absence. The Doctor ran to the door and watched the tail lights as they grew dimmer. He could dash after the vehicle or borrow Nurse Lafitte's car…

But something was niggling at him. He needed to check the basement. If Rose wasn't there, he'd try to intercept the car.

"There's only one road back to town, right?" he asked as he walked rapidly toward the stairwell.

"Yes."

"Do me a favor and call the police in St. Adele. Tell them they need to stop that car."

"I'll need a reason—"

"We may have an escaped patient on our hands."

He'd already disappeared through the door by the time she picked up the phone.

He took the stairs two at a time. When he reached the bottom, his eyes swept the scene before him. A large kitchen lay to his right, lights lowered but sufficient illumination to permit him to make a quick search. The area was deserted.

The Doctor returned to the hallway. It branched off in three directions. He walked down the first branch, finding that it ended in a storage area consisting of rows of stocked shelves. He backtracked then entered the next corridor. It was gloomy, its only light that from the kitchen. He looked ahead, squinting through the dimness.

There, toward the end, was something near the floor. As his eyes adjusted quickly, he could make out legs—bare legs beneath a simple, light-colored nightgown.

"Rose!" he cried, rushing forward. The distinct tang of iron tickled his nose.

Rose was slouched against the wall, her head lolling forward. Toussled hair concealed her face. He knelt beside her, lifting her chin. Her eyes were closed; it was clear that she was unconscious. His gaze raked over her even as his hands moved to examine her head, checking for injury, dreading the possibility that he would find the strange marks upon her scalp.

What his anxious eyes found seconds later was much worse. Her arms lay at her sides, palms up as if in silent supplication. In the shadowy light he hadn't immediately seen the darkness pooled beneath her hands, spreading toward her hips…

"Oh Rose, no. No, no, no," he uttered.

His shaking hand pressed against the pulse point in her throat. She was still alive, but her heartbeat was weak and erratic. At first he couldn't understand where the blood was coming from, but then he saw the scalpel near her hand. He wiped away the crimson mess from one wrist to find a deep cut over the radial artery.

He lifted her arms, holding them against her chest, then hoisted her up into his secure embrace. Balancing her body across his forearms, he wrapped his fingers tightly over her wrists to apply pressure as his legs carried him swiftly toward the stairwell. Lowering one of his bloodied hands, he wrenched open the door and stumbled up the stairs.

When he emerged onto the main level, his shoulder shoved the door hard enough to cause it to slam against the wall.

"Help me!" he shouted.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	11. Chapter 11

Nurse Lafitte looked up from her desk, eyes widening in shock as she took in the limp, bleeding girl in the Doctor's arms.

"Oh my God," she cried, hurrying toward him. "What happened?"

"Her wrists are cut," he replied tersely, long legs moving in swift strides down the hall.

"She attempted suicide?"

"No!" he snapped, "of course not. But someone wanted us to think she did."

"What? Who would—"

"Not now." He was already kicking open the door to the infirmary. He lay Rose upon the examination couch and instructed, "Elevate her right wrist, and keep pressure on the wound."

The nurse obeyed immediately, holding a thick gauze pad firmly over the injury. He pulled the sonic screwdriver from his pocket, switched it on and made a quick adjustment, then aimed the narrow, green beam at the deep incision on Rose's left wrist.

"What are you doing?" the nurse asked, clearly surprised by his actions.

"Cauterizing the wound—fastest way to stop the bleeding."

"But…" Her eyes watched the strange little device in his hand. "What is that thing?"

"New type of equipment," he replied succinctly; he didn't plan to waste precious time with needless explanations.

The blood had ceased flowing from Rose's right wrist, and he moved on to the left. Within less than half a minute the bleeding stopped. He pressed his fingers over her carotid artery again, noting the pallor and coolness of her skin.

"She's hypovolemic," he said. "Get me a saline IV."

"Yes, Doctor."

For all her primness and propriety the previous day, Nurse Lafitte proved efficient and helpful as she brought the requested items and provided assistance as needed. The Doctor would not risk Rose to any hands but his own, of course, and the nurse seemed to understand.

She did not protest as he inserted the IV line himself and taped it in place. She gathered suture supplies then stood back to provide him with space as he solicitously yet deftly repaired the damage to Rose's right wrist. While he could heal her much faster within the TARDIS's infirmary, the time required to reach his ship would leave Rose vulnerable. He'd use the dermal regenerator as soon as feasible, though, to ensure rapid and complete healing. For now, old-fashioned sutures would suffice.

After he'd closed the wicked gash, he cleaned the remaining blood away from her arm and bandaged the wound carefully. He performed the same treatment on her left wrist. Once it was neatly bandaged, he surveyed her still, pale form.

Her pulse was somewhat stronger thanks to the fluid boost from the IV. He spared a few moments to check her for any other injuries, noting with barely suppressed ire the blood that stained her thighs and the hem of her gown.

He lifted her torso gently, saying, "Help me get this off of her."

Nurse Lafitte complied without question, removing the soiled nightgown with practiced ease. She brought a blanket and set it over the unconscious young woman as he lay her down again. Quickly yet proficiently she used a warm cloth to clean the blood from Rose's legs then rearranged the blanket to cover her fully.

"I'll get her a fresh nightgown," she offered, all concerns about decorum forgotten in the urgency of the situation. "Unless you need anything else right now?"

"No," he replied, his attention entirely upon Rose.

The nurse left. He scanned Rose with the sonic screwdriver to reassure himself that she was not in any grave danger. Thankfully he had reached her in time, but only just. If she had lost even a little more blood—if he'd found her even five minutes later—

The Doctor inhaled sharply, the gravity of the situation sinking in fully. He took her cold, limp hand in his and moved his thumb softly over her skin.

She made a small noise, something between a moan and a sigh. His eyes moved immediately to her face.

"Rose?"

Her eyelids fluttered, lashes dark against her ashen cheeks. "Doctor?" she whispered.

"Yes, Rose. I'm here, and everything's all right. You're going to be fine."

She opened her eyes; her gaze was glassy but she found his face. He smiled at her.

"She…" Rose began.

"Sshh. Don't talk just yet. Give yourself a little time to get some strength back."

Her eyes moved languidly to the hand he held. "Cut," she rasped.

"I know, but I've sorted it. You'll be good as new before you know it." He settled his palm softly over her brow. "Just rest, Rose."

She shook her head weakly. "No…" Visibly mustering a bit of energy, she swallowed then said, "Nurse Lebou… did it."

"I gathered as much."

"But she also…hit him. Did you find… Dr. Poile?"

"No. Was he in the basement with you?"

"Mmm. Down an old corridor… by the big metal door."

"All right. I'll send someone to check." He stroked her cheek; her skin was warming gradually.

Her efforts to speak had exhausted her, and Rose's eyes began to close. Nurse Lafitte returned then with the nightgown and a robe, which she hung on a hook. The Doctor gave her a few moments to slip the nightgown over Rose's head then said, "Get one of the orderlies and go to the basement. Dr. Poile may be down there and hurt."

"What?"

"Rose was attacked, and so was he. She said he's down one of the old corridors, near a large metal door."

The nurse nodded, already moving toward the doorway. But Rose's fingers tightened slightly around his hand, and her eyes opened again.

"Be careful," she croaked.

"Nurse Lebou's gone," he reassured her, convinced that the culprit had driven away. With luck she'd already been apprehended…

"No," Rose said. "The door… there's somethin'… behind the door."

Immediately the Doctor understood. "Go as quickly as you can, and if you find Poile just get him away as quickly as you can," he instructed the nurse.

She was clearly apprehensive, but she left, promising to use caution and secure the services of the two orderlies on duty upstairs.

"You need to go," Rose persisted, "an' see… what it is."

"I will, Rose," he said. "But right now, I need to stay here with you."

"'M all right."

She wasn't, of course, but he took her hand gently and replied, "Yes."

In his anxious haste to treat her injuries, the Doctor's motions and observations had been rapid and efficient. His sole focus had been on the cuts and the blood loss. But now he took a few moments to study her eyes, noting the tight contraction of her pupils. He leaned in a bit to sniff at her face.

"Ick. Chloroform," he commented with a grimace.

"Yeah, thought it was somethin' like that," she said.

He sighed. "It'd have to be. I knew you wouldn't sit still for that." He glanced at one of her wrists.

"How bad?" she asked softly.

He smiled reassuringly. "Not so very. Nothing I can't sort back in the TARDIS. You're going to feel weak for a little while, but the fluids'll help."

She was growing more alert by the minute. Her gaze moved to the nearest cabinet then back to him. "Pills didn't work," she reported.

"Hmm?"

"Your pills. They didn't stop the chloroform from affectin' me."

"Oh, right. No, they wouldn't. It didn't occur to me that anyone would try to give you anything that would _increase_ gamma-aminobutyric neurotansmission."

"Gammama…what?"

He patted her hand. "It's not important." Almost unconsciously his fingers moved to press over the pulse point just below the bandage. She was getting stronger, but the soft flutter beneath his fingertips reminded him of the gravity of the situation. "What the hell were you doing down in the basement, anyway?"

"Dr. Poile came to see me just after you left. He knew I'd been fakin' the whole time—thought I was sent to investigate what's been goin' on here. He told me he'd found a woman dead in the basement a few days ago. She had some sort of strange head wound like nothing he'd ever seen before. He'd heard something, too, behind that big, heavy door, something he thought shouldn't be there. We went down to see. Didn't you get the note I left?"

The Time Lord shook his head. "No. I imagine Nurse Lebou took it after she drugged Mr. Drake then pulled out his IV to get me upstairs."

Rose wriggled a bit, trying to shift the blanket to cover her legs. "Feet're cold," she murmured as he readjusted the cover.

"You've lost one of your slippers," he said, noticing for the first time that she had one bare foot. He pulled off the other slipper then tucked the blanket around her feet.

The rapid clicking of heels on the hallway linoleum alerted them to Nurse Lafitte's return. The expression on her face notified them of her discovery, even before the tearful words spilled out.

"He's dead," she sniffed. "His head—" She swallowed back a sob, clearly trying to keep herself composed. "There was a lead pipe nearby."

"And a single white slipper," the Doctor added.

The nurse blinked. "How did you know that?"

"It's Rose's," he replied, nodding toward him companion. "Lebou must've wanted it to appear that Rose attacked Poile then killed herself."

"Did you see anything else?" Rose asked.

"Like what?" replied the nurse.

Rose clarified, "Anything out of the ordinary, anything near the door."

"No. We just found Dr. Poile and pulled him away, out of the corridor as you said. The orderlies have taken him to his office, and I'll phone the coroner. But I thought you'd want to know."

The Doctor and Rose both nodded somberly, then he said, "Make sure no one else goes into the basement."

Nurse Lafitte's chin dipped in agreement as she stepped out the door.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	12. Chapter 12

Rose was willing to remain in bed resting for a short while, but as her strength began to return, she grew more anxious to revisit to the basement with the Doctor. What if whatever lay beyond the door got out and wreaked further havoc?

Immediately after the Doctor removed the IV line, she sat up and swung her legs over the edge of the narrow bed.

"What are you doing?" he asked, turning back to face her.

"We need to get down to the basement," she began.

He shook his head adamantly. "Absolutely not. You're in no shape to go anywhere yet, with the possible exception of the TARDIS infirmary. And if we do that, I'm going to borrow a car and drive you there, or bring the ship here."

Rose pushed herself to her feet. She felt a mild wave of dizziness, but she stood firmly, gathering her strength. "Doctor, we have to go and see what it is. It might've been responsible for Dr. Poile's death."

"Nurse Lebou or that orderly hit him."

"Yeah. But whatever that thing behind the door is, it might've got out and got to him, too. We should at least have a look at his body."

He eyed her critically, clearly assessing her condition. She stood a bit taller. With a sigh of resignation, he reached into his pocket and withdrew the sonic screwdriver. He flicked it on, adjusting the setting then aiming it at her chest. "Fluid volumn's back up, but you're still low on red blood cells. That's going to leave you weak for some time."

"I feel fine."

An eyebrow arched dubiously at her, but he didn't refute her words. Instead, he fiddled with the small instrument in his hands, then he pressed it gently against her back, just above her right hipbone. She felt a small tingle move through her skin.

"What're you doin'?" she asked.

"Just giving your kidneys a little nudge to get them to produce more erythropoietin, the hormone that stimulates red blood cell production." He moved the device to the left and repeated the treatment. "Right, that should help. You'll feel a lot stronger within half an hour or so."

"Thanks."

"Just don't try to participate in any major sporting events in the next little while. They frown on this sort of thing."

"What, is it like doping?"

He grinned slightly abashedly. "Pretty much. I've gotta keep you going one way or another, since you refuse to take your Doctor's advice."

"When this is over, when we find out what's really going on, what hurt all these people, I'll do whatever you say."

He placed his hand upon her cheek. "There's one thing that's non-negotiable," he said, and his tone was absolutely serious.

"Yeah, an' what's that?"

"You don't leave my sight."

"I can live with that."

With one significant nod, he said, "That's the idea."

He dropped his hand and reached for the pile of clothes Nurse Lafitte had dropped off earlier. "Suppose you'll want to get dressed," he said, passing the items to her.

She took them gratefully. "Yeah, thanks."

"I'll just wait outside then." He moved toward the door.

"But Doctor," she said sweetly, "that'll mean I'm out of your sight." Her lips twitched into a smile.

"I think it'll be all right just this one." He stepped out into the hallway before she could see the light flush that covered his cheeks.

* * *

Dr. Poile had been placed upon the sofa in his office, hands folded precisely over his still chest. A sheet covered him, but the Doctor pulled it away without pretense so that he could examine the wound on the psychiatrist's head.

Rose hovered at his side, but he could tell that she'd averted her gaze after the first glimpse of drying blood. He moved the sonic screwdriver over the injury.

"I was right," he told her without a hint of self-satisfaction. "This is from a heavy blow to the head. It fractured his skull, and a bone fragment entered the temporal lobe. He probably never even knew what hit him."

She nodded. "So it really was the orderly?"

"With the lead pipe. In the hallway."

His attempt at humor fell flat. He pulled the sheet over Poile again then turned back to Rose. She was biting at her lower lip, thinking.

"We know Nurse Lebou's involved, an' the orderly too," she said. "But I think he's just followin' her orders, obeyin' her for some reason or another. I'll bet she's got the key to that door, an' she's the one who let out that thing the night the kitchen worker was killed."

"Possibly," he agreed. "But the big question is why." Even as he said the words, a vague thought, an ephemeral memory was tickling at the back of him mind. It was all connected: The creature, the patients' apparently disparate conditions, Nurse Lebou…

"Only one way to find out." Rose slid her fingers through his once again and urged him toward the door.

Someone—probably Nurse Lafitte—had locked the basement door, but the Doctor made short work of the mechanism with the sonic screwdriver. Before he and Rose ascended the stairs, he adjusted the instrument again, readying it for whatever might be lurking below. She held a torch borrowed from the nurses' station.

"I go first," he said, and Rose did not argue.

The Doctor's mind was working quickly, scrolling through memories and knowledge acquired long ago. But he couldn't quite access what he needed; something was missing, some small bit of information...

They reached the door. He pressed his hand against the cool metal. There was a slight vibration within the portal, and he could hear something breathing. The respiration pattern was not human, nor was the faint smell that escaped from beneath the door. It was musky, almost animal but not quite…

Rose shone the beam of light on the lock. Positioning himself in front of her, he aimed the sonic screwdriver at the lock but did not activate the instrument yet. He looked down at her.

"Stay behind me," he instructed. "And whatever happens, don't let it touch you."

Her eyes widened slightly. "Do you know what it is?"

"No, not yet. But if it's what's responsible for the patients' conditions and for that woman's death, we both need to keep well away from it."

She nodded and took a step back as he switched on the screwdriver. It whirred for a few seconds, then the lock clicked. Rose shifted the torch to provide maximum illumination to the doorway. He reached for the iron handle, took a breath, and pulled.

The room was large, perhaps 300 square meters. His eyes swept the space, noting immediately the sparse furnishings. Aside from two broken chairs and an old table, the room contained no adornment. An empty metal bowl, well dented and stained, lay in one corner. In the farthest alcove, a figure hunched between the walls, lurching to its feet as it realized that the door was now open.

The odor grew much stronger, and the Doctor sniffed deeply, sparing one moment to direct the sensation directly to the memory cortex of his brain. Then his eyes fixed on the beast lumbering toward him.

"What is it?" Rose asked, her voice sounding faint in the wake of the creature's heavy breathing.

The Time Lord did not respond immediately. He was beginning to recognize the smell even as his gaze took in the thick, grey skin, the short limbs and massive, bulbous head atop the almost amorphous body. The thing was hairless, and its eyes were mere slits in its shapeless face.

It lifted its arms as its pace increased. Its fetid breath filled the room; the smell was fear, elation, terror, and joy all in one. And then the Doctor knew what lunged toward him. In any other situation, his eyes would have filled with tears.

"I'm sorry," he said, raising his hands placatingly. "You don't deserve this."

"Doctor! Move!" Rose shouted.

But he stood firmly, understanding what had to be done. The screwdriver remained loosely in his hand, but he made no move to use it. The creature was only a meter away, yet he remained immobile.

Rose grabbed his arm, trying to pull him away, but he shook his head and said firmly yet calmy, "No. Stay back, Rose, and don't try to stop me."

He shoved her away, barely aware that she'd stumbled back. But he needed her out of harm's way. She was much too tempting a target for the creature's surging appetite.

Its tiny, dull eyes fixed upon him then moved slowly toward Rose. He took a step forward, placing himself before the beast. Then he bent his head.

The creature sniffed loudly, its arms hovering mid-air at its sides.

"Doctor! Don't!" Rose cried.

He ignored her plea and stood still. One massive paw landed clumsily and heavily upon his crown, and he felt the burning pain as the animal fed. He waited, ten seconds, twenty, thirty-five, vaguely aware of Rose struggling behind him. Little pants and grunts were escaping her, but he could not turn around, could not remove himself from the connection established.

His thoughts were growing muddled, and his chest was very tight, but he continued to breathe, continued to cling to consciousness and waited for the inevitable.

It took forty-seven seconds for the creature's body to process the meal and begin registering pain. Another twelve seconds were required before it dropped its paw and staggered back, keening softly at first then with increasing volume as the discomfort magnified.

It fell to its knees, paws swiping ineffectually at its head as the agony coursed through it. The poison spread quickly then, and within less than half a minute it sank to the ground, its cries subsiding to pants.

The Doctor knelt at its side and lay his hand upon its head. He closed his eyes as deep sorrow washed over him.

"Doctor!"

Rose's hoarse cry roused him from his mournful reverie. He turned around quickly. He'd pushed her back; had he hurt her?

He probably shouldn't have been surprised to see Nurse Lebou with her arm around Rose's neck, but he was, just for a moment. She must have come up behind Rose, catching her off-guard as his companion watched the events before her with wide, uncomprehending eyes.

He stood and said, "It's over."

The nurse's eyes were fixed on the dying creature. Her grip loosened as she began to understand what the Doctor had done. Rose pushed the woman away and stumbled toward the Time Lord. He wrapped an arm around her.

"What—" stammered Nurse Lebou, "what have you done?"

"Put it out of its misery," he replied. "Do you have any idea how much pain it was in? The smell alone should have told you."

"But it touched you, it fed," she protested. "You can't be… you shouldn't be… why didn't it affect you?"

He snorted derisively. "Because I'm not human. I'm surprised you haven't figured that out yet, seeing as you aren't, either."

Rose took a slightly astonished breath.

His eyes flicked to the beast as he continued. "I thought these were extinct—haven't seen one in hundreds of years."

"What is it?" Rose asked.

"It's called a Sentaera."

"It's horrible," she responded, her own gaze studying the animal's grotesque body.

"Actually, it's not," he said just a bit sharply. "In its own environment it's a peaceful, gentle creature that benefits the other animals. It subsists by feeding on the energy residue left by pain and fear. If another animal's hurt, it feeds and takes away the feelings of pain. But that's in its own environment, with animals with simple emotions. Take it out of its habitat and expose it to the complexity of human feeling, and it goes on a feeding frenzy, growing hungrier all the time, sucking out all the emotional energy it can find. It doesn't know any better; it's just using its survival instinct."

"How'd it get here?" Rose asked.

The Sentaera emitted a loud, rasping belch, filling the air with a thickly fetid fog that wafted upward and dissipated quickly. Then it gave one final shuddering breath and lay without moving.

"She brought it," he said, pointing an accusing finger at Nurse Lebou. "You're Mrobarian, aren't you?"

She blinked at him. "Yes. How did you know?"

"Because your people held the last of the Sentaera in captivity. You lot captured them all, used them when you conquered other planets to make the inhabitants completely cooperative. But you treated the animals badly, didn't care for them properly, and they all died—all but this one, I'm guessing."

"So you were hoping to take over Canada?" Rose asked.

"It was supposed to be a start, but human emotions are too jumbled, too confused," the bogus nurse said derisively, "too hard to predict. Sometimes the animal took all their anger, but sometimes it took all their joy and pleasure. We were experimenting, trying to figure out how to determine the way it would affect each person—"

"But humans are too unique," the Doctor interjected, "and it's impossible to predict just how their emotions will play out."

Rose was clearly thinking, puzzling out the entire situation. "You started in Quebec City, right? Then you came here and brought the poor thing, keeping it right here so that you could release it into the woods to feed off whoever happened to pass by. And working here, you could keep an eye on all the victims, see how they responded, try and figure out if there were any patterns or anything."

"You're more clever than you look," Lebou replied acidly. "But you're human, aren't you?"

"Hundred and ten percent," Rose replied with a slight lift of her chin.

"But you," the woman addressed the Doctor, "aren't, even though you look it. Well, except for the hair."

"Oi!" he snorted in affront.

"So what are you?" She squinted at him appraisingly. "Not Urquara, too tall for that. Not Prrrrwwww-kkkiiili, too skinny. Those are the only two races in existence whose emotional emissions would be harmful to a Sentaera. And even so, they wouldn't be fatal. But you, you were like poison to it."

The Doctor gently moved Rose aside and took a step toward the woman, his stance imposing and his expression hard and cold. "That's nothing compared with what I'll do to you and your people if you don't leave this planet immediately and swear to me that you'll never try anything like this again."

Despite her brave front, the Mrobarian shrank beneath the Time Lord's furious gaze. "You've ended this," she spat. "You've killed the last Saentera."

He shook his head. "No. You have."

She turned on her heel and strode out of the room.

"I'm going to be watching," he called after her.

She paused for a moment to turn back to him. "Who the hell _are_ you?"

"I'm the Oncoming Storm," he replied with unflinching authority. "I'm the one who's going to come if you ever even consider doing this again."

The alien's skin paled momentarily, then she hurried away down the corridor. The Doctor exhaled and turned back to the dead animal. It lay in a sad, untidy heap, its flaccid grey skin pooling on the dusty ground.

Rose had held the torch to keep the scene illuminated, but now the beam wavered, and suddenly the area was immersed in darkness. He heard a small clunk then a thud and saw the light wobble to shine through the doorway.

"Rose?" he asked. She'd been standing at his side, but now she was gone. "Rose!"

"Here," she answered weakly.

He looked down, his eyes adjusting quickly to the dimness. She was on her knees, arms curled up against her chest.

He dropped down beside her and reached for the torch. "What's the matter?"

She offered him her left arm. Blood was seeping through the bandage. "Think I might need a Doctor."

He took her wrist gently. Beneath the thready pulse, her skin was cool, indicating impending shock. Without preamble, he scooped her up into his arms and marched out the door, sparing a moment to secure the lock again. He'd deal with the Saentera's body later.

"Did Lebou do this to you?" he asked as his legs moved in long strides down the corridor.

"Mmm," she replied sluggishly, "slammed my wrist against the wall." Her head sank down to rest against his chest.

"Hang on, Rose," he said. "You'll be all right."

He took the stairs two at a time, the recent memory of his last ascension, complete with a bleeding, limp Rose in his arms, vividly flashing through his mind. He should never have permitted her to accompany him into the basement. He should have made her remain upstairs with Nurse Lafitte and the orderlies…

"Doctor?" The soft voice drew him from his chastisement.

"Ssh, Rose, no need to talk."

"But the patients," she said hoarsely. "Now the creature's dead, the patients'll stay sick. We didn't help them."

He caught a whiff of unpleasantness in the stairwell. "We'll need to reserve judgement on that," he replied. "At the moment, there's only one patient I'm focused on."

He carried her toward the infirmary, passing Nurse Lafitte and the two orderlies, who huddled just inside the main doorway, waiting for the coroner and police to arrive.

"Basement's sorted, and so's Nurse Lebou," he said as he strode by the small group.

"Do you need my help?" the nurse asked with concern, her eyes moving to Rose.

"Take care of Poile," he replied. "I'll call if I need you."

He hurried ahead as Rose's body grew limp in his arms.

* * *

_To be continued..._


	13. Chapter 13

Rose felt uncommonly weak and dizzy, but she knew she remained safe with the Doctor at her side. He set her carefully upon the examination couch then pulled off her hoodie.

She seemed to watch him through a fog as he unwrapped the bandage from her left wrist then pressed a square of gauze over it.

"That's not so bad," he said, but even through her haze she could tell that he was infusing his tone with an optimism he did not feel.

Her eyes remained upon her wrist as he moved away the gauze and probed delicately at the torn skin with his cool fingertips. She was becoming aware of pain throbbing from her hand to her elbow, and she must have made some sort of noise, because he looked up at her.

"Hurts? Of course it does. I should've realized…"

He'd taken up his screwdriver again and was directing it at her wrist. She noted idly that it emitted a pale green beam; she'd never seen it do that before.

"Rose," he said, his voice a bit husky, "this is going to hurt, but just for a few seconds. I need to stop the bleeding right now. But as soon as I'm finished I'll get you something for the pain, all right?"

He didn't wait for her to respond. His thumb touched the end of the screwdriver, and the green light grew darker. And then she felt an agonizing searing in the very center of the thrumming ache. She gasped and instinctively tried to pull her arm away. The Doctor, however, held it firmly.

Tears stung Rose's eyes, and her chest was suddenly very tight. She drew a rough breath. By the time she'd exhaled, the worst of the pain was gone. The Doctor was dropping the screwdriver back in his pocket then peering at her wrist again. As soon as his eyes moved to her face, his expression changed from serious to remorseful.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, resting the back of his hand against her tear-stained cheek. "The equipment here is so primitive, bordering on barbaric really, but there wasn't time to go back to the TARDIS. Bleeding's stopped now, though."

He turned away from her then, rummaging through a cabinet for a bit. Rose's eyelids were very heavy, and she permitted them to lower. She dragged them open again when something cold and wet touched the crook of her arm.

He was rubbing alcohol over her skin, she realized. He held a syringe in his right hand. Somehow he managed to shift it around using some sort of legerdemain that kept her from actually seeing him inject the contents. She barely felt the needle, either.

"There we are," he said when he'd finished. "Nice little dose of morphine. It'll make you a bit sleepy, but that's all right."

She could still hear the false note in his voice; he was trying very hard to remain cheerful and hide his concern. Her head was growing muzzier, though, and she really didn't have the energy to think about it much more…

He was moving her arm, positioning it at her side, palm up. "Stitches are torn," he informed her, "so I'm going to remove them and redo them. Dermal regenerator'll take care of this once and for all as soon as we get back to the TARDIS, but this'll do for now."

She tried to watch as he began working on her wrist, but she really was awfully drowsy, and her thoughts were muddled and fuzzy. One bit of knowledge, however, remained clear: The Doctor was at her side, and she'd be safe with him.

Rose's eyes closed, and she slept.

* * *

The Doctor felt a soft surge of relief when Rose's breathing deepened and he realized slumber had claimed her. Now she wouldn't feel any pain. He worked quickly to remove the rest of the sutures then close the torn skin with new ones.

She'd lost some more blood before he'd cauterized the wound again, but her body was producing additional erythrocytes thanks to the nudge he'd given her kidneys, so he thought she would be all right without a transfusion.

His fingers lingered over her wrist after he'd wrapped fresh bandages around the wound. Her pulse remained thready, but her color had improved incrementally. Her expression was serene in sleep. However, he could still see the traces of tears upon her cheeks. He'd caused her pain, and while it had been very necessary, he wished there had been a way to avoid it.

He ran warm water over a flannel then sat by Rose's side. He wiped the cloth over her cheeks and brow. A smudge upon her neck caught his eye. He tilted her head back and moved the flannel down. His hand froze when he realized the smudge was the beginning of a bruise. That damned Mrobarian had tried to strangle her. Now he saw the marks across her throat.

He ran gentle fingers over the bruised, tender skin. He couldn't feel any underlying damage, thankfully. He bent down to listen to her breathing. It was soft and steady, the warmth tickling his ear.

He exhaled a sigh of relief. She'd be all right, but this had been a close call. He should never have permitted her to stay at the hospital. He knew she'd be in danger, yet he'd gone along with her plan. Even after she'd been pushed down the stairs, he'd been an idiot and left her alone, ultimately leading to the very serious attempt on her life.

The Doctor's hand moved over her hair in small strokes. "I'm sorry," he said. He knew millions of languages and billions of pronouns, nouns, verbs, adjectives, adverbs, and prepositions, but at the moment those two little words were all that he could think of to say.

* * *

Rose awoke to the aroma of freshly brewed tea. She opened her eyes slowly, requiring a minute to recall where she was. The stark white walls and glass cabinets of the hospital's infirmary met her gaze first, and then the saw the familiar face of her favorite person.

"Doctor," she said.

He'd been looking away, at some unseen point within his own mind. Her voice drew his gaze to her immediately. He grinned. "Rose!"

"Yeah."

He was seated on a stool, but he stood to come to her side. He took her hand, his thumb running gently over her palm. "How are you feeling?"

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "If I ever had any doubts that your name wasn't just for show, that'd squash 'em."

He arched an eyebrow at her. "Oi! It's a perfectly legitimate question! And your answer tells me that you're feeling much better."

She smiled. "I am."

She pushed herself up onto her elbows. She was still weak, but she didn't feel dizzy. The Doctor's hand slid behind her back to help her sit up fully. He was watching her, just a hint of concern hidden in his eyes.

"All right?" he asked.

"Could be better," she replied. Before he could question her statement or become concerned, she added, "Could have a cuppa in my hands." She'd noticed the tea service on the counter as soon as she'd opened her eyes.

"Coming right up." He poured her tea and delivered it with a small flourish, bending in a mock bow.

A laugh began to bubble up in her throat, but then she saw the top of his head. "Doctor! Are you all right?"

She reached forward to rest one hand upon his crown as the other parted his hair. His scalp bore the same marks she'd seen on the patients.

He rubbed at the spot. "I'd forgot all about that," he said with a small frown. "How's it look?"

"Same as the others. Does it hurt?"

"Not really. But did it damage my hair?"

Her fingers combed through the slightly stiff strands. "No, don't think so."

"Well then, all's well that ends well."

"But you've got the marks…"

"No harm done, Rose, at least not to me." His expression sobered, and she knew he was thinking about the Saentera.

"It was suffering, wasn't it?" she asked gently.

The Doctor nodded. "Very much. It would be the equivalent of a human devouring completely indigestible material along with normal food, over and over again. After a while, the system would become blocked, bloated, and eventually damaged and diseased. The pain would be almost unbearable."

"You put it out of its misery."

"I know. But still…"

"You knew what you did would kill it, didn't you?"

"Yes."

Both were silent for a few moments before she spoke again. "And you stopped anyone else getting hurt. That's something, even if you couldn't help the people here."

He handed her the mug, an enigmatic expression on his face. "Drink this, and have an abricotine—best pastry anywhere, unless you count the ones on Beurrererea, but that's not fair since the entire planet's made of them." He passed her a large pastry resembling a danish. "After you've eaten, we'll see if you feel up to a little walk."

She complied, and the small bit of sustenance buoyed her energy almost immediately. "Any sign of Nurse Lebou?" she asked between bites of the delicious flaky pastry, custardy filling, and glazed apricots.

"No. I'm sure she's gone back to Mrobaria by now. But the orderly—Rodney Something-or-other—was apprehended in town, and he confessed to aiding her. He swears she was the one who killed Poile, and I'm inclined to believe it. She'll know he caved, of course, so she won't dare to return here."

"He's not an alien?"

"No, just someone tempted by promises of money."

Once she'd finished her pastry and tea, she got down from the couch. The Doctor kept an arm around her waist; she remained a bit wobbly. Still, she felt strong enough to walk rather than be placed in a wheel chair. They took the elevator up to the ward where she'd spent the previous day.

The halls were quiet, but a great deal of noise was coming from the dayroom. It sounded like a party, she realized. They walked toward the happy sounds.

"Take a peek in there," he said, opening the door partially.

Rose saw the room crowded with staff and patients. It took her a few moments to recognize the few with whom she'd spoken. Their expressions were clear and their eyes were bright, and all were laughing and smiling.

"You cured them!" she exclaimed, looking up at the Time Lord.

"No," he replied, though he was grinning happily. "Not really, at least not directly."

"Then how?"

"Remember what I said about the food the Saentera couldn't digest? Those were most of the emotions it had taken from these people. When it died, they were released. You probably don't remember, but there was a strong odor immediately after it passed. That was the emotional residue. It spread out through the hallways, ultimately drifting throughout the hospital. Once the patients inhaled it, their emotions returned."

Surprised, Rose said, "They breathed in their feelings?"

"In a manner of speaking. The part of the brain that processes smell is next to the area responsible for memory. The scent triggered those emotional memories and turned them on again."

"So they weren't really taken away?"

"Oh, no, they were, but enough residual fragments remained that their brains were able to rebuild those lost emotional connections quite quickly. All it took was a little boost of the appropriate neurotransmitters to get the ball rolling again."

"And you were responsible for that part, right?"

"I do know a little something about medicine," he conceded with surprising humility.

"Right. So everyone's okay now?"

"They will be. Some were more severely affected and will need some time to heal completely. They'll remain here until they're well. The nurses understand the situation now and will see that they're taken care of."

"And after that?"

"I really don't know. I imagine Poile's death will be something of a black mark against the hospital."

Rose nodded. "It's too bad your friend's son couldn't have been helped, too."

"Yes. But we'll make sure she knows that his death led to this." He gestured toward the throng of ebullient people.

"You wanna join them?" she asked.

"If you like."

She knew him well enough to answer, "No. Let's just get back to the TARDIS. I think we're finished here."

He took her hand. "Yes, we are."

Together they walked toward the elevator, the festive clamor echoing in their ears as the doors closed behind them.

* * *

_If there is enough interest, I'll add a short epilogue… _


	14. Epilogue

_Epilogue_

* * *

Rose insisted that she felt strong enough to walk back to the TARDIS. She said she'd been cooped up far too long and wanted to breathe in the fresh, open air and see the sky above her. So the Doctor indulged her, strolling at an easy pace and keeping his arm loosely about her waist to provide just a hint of support.

They chatted casually as they walked, but her voice grew softer and her words fewer as they neared the ship. He knew she was tiring quickly, and his arm tightened around her. She leaned against him gratefully, rewarded by his encouraging smile.

"Just up here," he said cheerfully as the ship came into view.

Within a few minutes they were standing beside the blue police box as he slid his key into the lock. He pushed open the door and ushered Rose inside. She followed him up the ramp; he thought that being back in the TARDIS had buoyed her energy.

"So, we'll just make a quick trip to France and find Madame Luranne," he told her,"then we can go wherever you like."

"You're still hoping she'll make some of that duck a l'orange, aren't you?" Rose teased.

He grinned at the console, his fingers flying over the controls. "Well, I wouldn't say no if she asked. That would be rude!"

He heard her soft chuckle, then he keyed in the appropriate sequence, and the familiar groan of time and space rent asunder filled his ears. As the ship shuddered to a stop, he turned back to Rose, the grin still upon his face. It faded immediately when he saw her slumped over the railing, barely keeping herself on her feet.

He took two large steps to reach her side, quickly easing her upward so that he could see her face. She was pallid and clammy.

"Whew," she exhaled. "Think I might need a quick kip. Can you get my duck to go?"

"I'll do better than that, Rose." He shifted to support her then led her down the corridor.

He probably should have taken her to the infirmary first thing. The trip to France could wait until she was well. For that matter, it could wait a thousand years; he could arrive whenever he chose. His immediate priority should have been Rose…

"Hey," she was saying, watching his brows draw together, "what's the matter?"

He looked down at her. Despite her obvious weakness and discomfort, she was concerned about him. "Nothing, Rose. Everything's going to be fine."

But she was not convinced. She persisted, "Does your head hurt? Must feel sorta like a burn, yeah?" They'd reached the infirmary, and her gaze took in their surroundings. "I'm sure you've got something in here that'll take care of it."

"I'm all right," he replied, settling her upon the examination couch in the center of the room. "And you will be too. Just give me a couple of minutes."

He gathered the supplies he needed then returned to her. She was sitting up, her arms wrapped around her knees. He had the distinct feeling that she was consciously refusing to give in to the fatigue and dizziness. He noticed that she kept her wrists well away from her legs, avoiding painful contact with the injuries.

He raised the upper half of the couch so that she could lean back but still remain partially upright. She straightened her legs and sank back, finally giving in to the wishes of her weakened body.

"This'll replace the blood you lost and replenish your energy," he told her as he hung a bag from a hook that had descended from the ceiling. The bag was half full; the solution he'd prepared was sufficiently rich to require only a small amount. He reached over to the counter for an IV port.

"More needles?" she asked with just a hint of wariness.

"Sorry, yes."

Quickly and efficiently, he inserted the port then attached the line. She was a model patient, really, and didn't even flinch. She even offered him a small, appreciative smile once the solution began flowing.

"Now let me sort this," he said, brushing his fingers over the bandage on her left wrist.

He unwrapped the gauze and studied the wound for a moment. He'd done a good job with the sutures, but the dermal regenerator would heal the wound thoroughly and quickly. Carefully he removed the stitches. Rose winced twice as the heavy thread moved through her tender, raw skin.

"It'll be over in a jiffy," he reassured her, glancing up at her ashen face. He could give her something for the pain, but in the time that took he could repair the damage completely. He opted for the latter course.

He switched on the dermal regenerator and adjusted the beam to penetrate the dermis and repair the damage to the artery. The cauterization had been a quick and dirty fix; this would repair all the damaged cells completely. Rose flinched again. He knew she felt some uncomfortable tingling.

"Almost there," he said encouragingly. He changed the setting again and closed the gash on her wrist. "There we are. How's that feel?"

"Better." She lifted her wrist to study the smooth skin for a few seconds then added, "Fine."

He nodded then repeated the process on her right wrist. She found the procedure less uncomfortable, since, unlike that on the other wrist, this injury hadn't been exacerbated.

Still, he could see that she was glad when he switched off the regenerator with a satisfied nod.

"Good as new," he said.

"Thanks."

He checked the IV bag and line then rested his fingers against her wrist. Her pulse was steady, the strength approaching normalcy. She was warmer, too. Satisfied that Rose was nearly recovered, he pulled up a chair and sat down at her side. She'd watched his actions quietly through half-closed eyes, and he'd thought she might fall asleep. However, her gaze sharpened as he ran a hand through his hair.

"Why don't you let me use the dermal regenerator on that?" she asked, gesturing toward his scalp.

"It's not bothering me," he replied.

"You sure?"

"Yes."

"Well, somethin' is." Now she was staring at him pointedly.

"No, I'm all right."

She didn't believe that for one second. "Is it the Saentera? You know you didn't have a choice—"

"I know," he replied quickly.

"You saved a lot of people," she reminded him. She reached for his hand.

Her touch was warm and alive, so different from the cold, waxen flesh he'd felt only hours ago. "But I nearly lost you," he uttered.

She blinked at him. "No you didn't. I'm gonna be fine."

"But if I hadn't found you when I did—after she attacked you—if I'd waited even ten minutes more—"

"But you didn't," she interjected. "You got me in time."

He was shaking his head. "I shouldn't have let you stay there, should never have permitted it, even for an hour, especially after I saw you'd been drugged."

She frowned. "Doctor, that wasn't up to you; it was up to me. You don't get to decide what I do and don't do."

"But I need to keep you safe—"

She shook her head now, too. "And if you had, if you'd locked me away in here, do you honestly think you would've figured out what was goin' on and would've been able to help those patients?"

He hesitated for just an instant. "Yes. Eventually."

"Maybe. But they would've suffered more, and so would that Saentera." She eyed him critically before she spoke again, her tone gentler. "After all this time, don't you get it? We're in this together, the good and the bad."

There were hundreds of things he might have said to her: words of protestation, denial, warning, supplication… But the look in her eyes silenced every one of them. Her resolution, sincerity, and strength were astonishing and irrevocable.

He wrapped his fingers more securely around her hand and simply said, "Yes, Rose, we are."

* * *

_Fin_


End file.
